


Hustlin' Homos

by fiji (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Breathplay, Daddy Kink, First Love, Gangsters, M/M, Racist Language, Rough Sex, Shooting, Snakes, Street Literature, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fiji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to Memphis, where when the sun goes down, shit starts popping off. If you want to survive, drop your head and mind your own business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Zayn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zlpayne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlpayne/gifts).



**September…**

At 8:15 a.m. the halls of Morris High School are already crammed with a bunch of lil niggas who didn’t want to be here—me included. It doesn’t matter that I’m in the top 5 percent of my class and that I already know the colleges I want to apply to next year. I hate this shitty school and look forward to the day I can roll up out of the here for good. Real talk, I have plans—big muthafuckin’ plans that don’t have shit to do with holding down none of these wannabe grown niggas repping bullshit gangs and bragging about how hood rich they are while they blast they way to the jail or the graveyard.

It isn’t that I don’t understand the struggle. Hell, I didn’t come up with shit either. No money. No home. No parents. The only thing I did have was a crazy-ass brother who loved the streets despite the fact that they don’t love him.

“Zayn!” Eleanor’s unmistakable babylike voice squeaks above all the other miscellaneous conversations floating down the hall.

“What up, E?” I say, jerking open my locker.

Eleanor reaches my side, out of breath. “Have you finally lost your goddamn mind?”

I know exactly what my girl is yapping about, but I’m not in the mood to try and explain myself. “Don’t start.” I grab my precalculus book and check my hair in the small mirror on my locker’s door. “It was a mistake and it won’t happen again.” I slam the door closed and try to go on my merry little way.

“A mistake? Boy, do you—”

“Your ass ain’t cute,” Qiana sneers, poking out her hip and mean mugging me while her neck twirls on overtime.

I roll my eyes and smack my perfectly round booty at Qiana. “That ain’t what your man said last night.”

“Oooh!” The other niggas littering the hallway instantly jump into the mix.

Qiana, a compact shawty dressed in black jeans, black T, and sporting a lopsided Louis Vuitton cap, steps forward, popping her bubble gum. “Hands off Liam, bitch. I catch you rubbing your stinky ass on him again and I’m going to personally slice your ass up.”

“You mean this ass right here?” I cup my shit, knowing it puts Qiana's little ass to sleep. “Don’t hate on Liam just ’cause you eyeballing my shit. If he was a straight thug, then I guess his ass would try to get with you and those dried-up Flowers you run with.”

“Dayum!” some inconsequential nigga in the crowd hollers.

Qiana’s already-burned toast complexion darkens as fire leaps into her eyes.

I’m not the least bit surprised that Qiana and her dyke friends with the Vice Lords’ Flowers feel bold enough to step to me like this. I sort of expected the shit when I let my guard down and got caught hugging up on Liam after homeroom—a serious violation since Liam’s family run with the Vice Lords, and guilt by blood means that he’s VL property as well.

Despite the ring of Flowers behind Qiana, Eleanor and I hold our ground, ready for the jump-off. The Flowers are infamous for jumping homos and forcing them into their shitty-ass gang. The school is littered with bitches repping for the three dominate gangs in shady M-Town: the Black Gangster Disciples, the Vice Lords, and the Crips.

I’m in a unique position. Like Liam, I have a little guilt by blood situation myself. My older brother, Harry, is riding with the Black Gangster Disciples. In the grand scheme of things, Qiana is just a lowly chicken head and she knows fucking with me means death.

Qiana grinds her back teeth and stares me down. She knows her options are limited. “Let’s just see what Fat Ace got to say about Liam dipping his dick in trash.”

I flinch. If anybody has the power to shut us down, it’s Liam’s menacing brother. “Get your snitchin’ ass out my face.”

“What’s going on over here? What is going on?” Principal Davis shuffles his tall, lanky frame through the crowd. His old ass always gets nervous whenever too many niggas are clustered together.

I turn my back, considering the situation squashed for the moment. Beside me, Eleanor exhales a long breath.

“Nigga, you’re playing with fire,” she whispers as we make our way down the hall. “That bitch can’t keep water, and you and Liam’s scandalous situation is going to reach Fat Ace—and Harry.”

My mind races a mile a minute. What are we going to do?

“What the hell were you thinking about, kissing him like that in public? Y’all were supposed to keep y’all shit on the DL.”

“I know. I know. But Liam kept fuckin’ around and pinchin’ me.”

“Well, I hope it was worth it. ’Cause now y’all shit is wide open, and the blowback ain’t going to be nothing nice. You feel me?”

Now my head hurts. Liam and I didn’t ask for none of this gang bullshit, and neither of us feels like we should be beholden to a bunch of laws and bylaws that we never agreed to. We’ve been feeling each other for the past six months, ever since I caught him peeping me out in German Town. I’d just tagged along with Eleanor to visit her uncle out there in a nursing home….

_German Town was the latest spot white folks had flocked to, trying to get away from niggas. I remembered being stunned at the pristine sidewalks, mowed lawns, and fancy cars flying down the roadway. It felt like another universe to South Memphis, where bullets fly and drug fiends reigned supreme. Eleanor and I turned the day into an adventure and hung out at Wolfchase Galleria, snickering and cheesing at all the uppity white folks._

_In my heart, there was a little jealousy about how the different classes carried themselves. They acted and were treated like the whole world was theirs. Their clothes were nicer. Their cars were hotter. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn the damn air was fresher._

_“Hey, Zayn,” Eleanor whispered. “Ain’t that nigga checkin’ you out?”_

_“Hmm?” I looked up from my baked cinnamon pretzel and glanced around. My gaze zoomed across the food court and zeroed in on the only brother in the place. It didn’t hurt that his ass was fine. In one sweeping glance, I saw that he was an easy six feet, lean with a basketball-player frame. If there was anything against him, it was his being white. Up until that moment, I had preferred my men to be dark._

_“Oooh, boy. He’s undressing you with his eyes,” Eleanor teased. “You going to let him violate you like that?”_

_“Nah. That nigga ain’t nobody.” I went back to eating my pretzel, but all the while I felt the brother’s heavy gaze caress every inch of my body. It took everything I had not to peek back at him. I then decided to give the brother an opening by telling my girl I was going back up to the Auntie Anne’s Pretzels counter for something to drink._

_“You want anything?” I asked._

_“Nah, boy. I’m straight.”_

_I stood up and switched my hips all extra because I wanted the white cutie to see what I was working with._

_“I’d like a Coke,” I told the woman behind the counter, and then wiggled a hand down the front pocket of my jeans for some change._

_“I got you,” a deep baritone said from behind me. A second later, a Lincoln was slapped on the counter. “Keep the change.”_

_I took my time glancing over my shoulder, and when I did, I wasn’t prepared for the big, caramel-brown eyes twinkling from beneath a fan of long, curly lashes. My heart started playing hopscotch in my chest. His hair was cut low, but I could tell he had that good Puerto Rican grade that had a nice wave and shine without the help of greasy products._

_“You ain’t got to stare that hard, baby. I’m real.” He smiled, hitting me with perfect rows of pearly white teeth._

_I cut my gaze away and grabbed my drink._

_“What, you just going to take a nigga’s drink and roll?”_

_I strutted off._

_“Oh, your momma must not have raised you right.”_

_I stopped. “Don’t be talking about my momma. You don’t know shit about me.”_

_My anger only made his smile wider. “I know you’re rude as hell. Does that count?”_

_“What, I’m supposed to bend over because you dropped five dollars? I ain’t impressed.”_

_My potential boo licked his fat, luscious lips as his gaze dropped to my ass. “I ain’t said shit about bending over, but if you put that fat onion in my face, I’m going to give you something to remember me by.”_

_A delicious thrill slivered straight down to my balls, despite me holding on to my mad face. “Is that how your momma taught you to talk to boys?”_

_“Oh, so it’s a’ight for you to talk about my momma, huh?”_

_“Answer the question.”_

_He held up his hands. “My bad, papi. I didn’t know that you were going to try getting all brand-new on a brotha.” He adjusted his collar as if it were an invisible tie. “Excuse me, mister. May I ask you your name?”_

_I sipped on my Coke as I weighed my decision._

_He stood, waiting and doing his damn best to mesmerize me with his deep-pitted dimples._

_“Zayn,” I finally said, offering my hand._

_“Zayn,” he repeated._

_My name sounded sexy tripping from his lips, and I felt that same thrill hit my dick._  
 _“And what’s your name?”_

_“Liam.” He straightened his shoulders and licked his lips. “But you can call me your boo.”_

_I cocked my head. “What makes you think I ain’t already got a man?”_

_“’Cause you standing here flirting with me.”_

_My lips twitched upward. “I’m just talking to you because you were crying about your five bucks.”_

_“Tsk, aww. Don’t play me. That ain’t no money. Come with me and let me show you how I roll.” He cocked his head._

_“Nigga, I don’t know you.”_

_“What, you scared now?”_

_“I’m just stating the facts.” I went back to sucking on my straw. “You could be a mad rapist or a murderer or something.”_

_“Yeah, right.” Liam hooked his fingers through the front loops of my jeans and pulled me close. When I didn’t resist, his smile turned cocky as hell. “Now do I look like a killer to you?”_

_I wanted to answer, but being all up on him like that made it hard to think about anything other than wondering what his fine ass looked like naked._

_He laughed at me, his breath all spearmint fresh. “Do you put all niggas through this much drama when you know they feeling you?”_

_“There you go crying again. Your momma must not have breastfed you when you were a kid.”_

_“There you go talking about my momma again.”_

_There was a hot moment of temptation. No little nigga had ever gotten me this hot. Plus, there was just something about his cocky ass that felt like the ying to my yang._

_“C’mon, papi. I’ll take you and your little friend shopping.”_

_Eleanor, who was just inches away at a wrought-iron table, perked up at that shit._

_“A’ight. Cool.” I hit him with the full power of my white smile._

_“Yeah!” Eleanor sprang up like a Pop-Tart._

_Wanting to see what Liam was working with, we hit every store in the mall, waiting to see when he would cry uncle and start cussing our asses out. It never happened. Liam peeled Benjamins off a fat knot of bills and made it rain at each cash register with a smile._

_“I think this nigga is serious,” Eleanor whispered when her feet started hurting, and she was ready to go home._

_I was thinking the same thing._

_“So, can a nigga get the digits, or are you just going to play me?” he asked once he helped load our shopping bags into Eleanor’s old Ford Escort._

_I folded my arms and stared. “Where you from?”_

_“Here.”_

_“German Town? What, your people got money?”_

_“My people do a’ight, but I ain’t from German Town. I meant Memphis. South Memphis, to be exact.”_

_I frowned. “I’m from South Memphis. How come I ain’t seen you before?”_

_“Been down in the ATL for a couple of years with my moms, but the stress of being a single mom tryna raise a son was too much, so she sent me to live with my father and big brother, Fat Ace.”_

_My heart dropped. “Fat Ace… is your brother?”_

_“Ah, shit,” Eleanor swore, crossing her arms behind her. “Give this nigga his shit back and tell him to get ghost.”_

_Liam’s face twisted. “Damn... Slow your roll. What, you kicked it with my brother or something?”_

_I stepped back and shook my head. “I can’t be fuckin’ around with the Vice Lords. My brother would fuckin’ kill me.”_

_“Whoa. Whoa.” Liam tossed his hand up. “I ain’t in that gangsta bullshit. I make my own moves. You feel me?”_

_“I hear you talking, but…”_

_“But what? You don’t believe me?”_

_“I’m saying it don’t matter. I ain’t in the game, either, but it don’t mean that I ain’t caught up in the politics of the situation. My brother is Python’s main bitch. Do you know who he is?”_

_“I heard the name around. I’ve only been back in Memphis a couple of weeks.”_

_“Well, he’s the head nigga of the Black Gangster Disciples. That means he’s your brother’s number-one enemy. Those niggas been beefing since my ass was in grade school.”_

_Liam paused, and then in the next second shrugged it off. “That shit ain’t got nothin’ to do with us.”_

_“You can’t be that naïve,” I said with my heart twisting in my chest. I was really feeling this nigga, too._

_Despite Liam’s reassurances, there were flickers of concern about the situation in his face. But being a true stand-up nigga, he didn’t like being told that he couldn’t have something…or someone. That was the day we hatched the idea of us seeing each other on the serious down low. The only other person who knew the deal was Eleanor, and she had my back like a muthafucka._

Now, because of one slipup, our shit is wide open. When Harry finds out, the blowback is going to be nothing nice.


	2. Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry explains how his relationship with Louis started.

Greg Horan is standing in the center of Momma Peaches’s cramped house, sweating like a runaway slave. Fear is a scent every Gangster Disciple killer thrives on, and we are all eyeballing Greg’s trembling ass while he takes his sweet time stacking money in front of our leader—and my man—Louis.

I smirk at the weak-ass nigga. I know what the fuck is about to go down, and I can’t wait for my man to deal with the weakest link in our organization. Had it been me, I would’ve toe-tagged his ass a long time ago. But he’s Louis’s blood—who knows how he’s going to handle this situation.

“Somebody shoot this dumb mutherfucka,” Louis hisses after taking one glance at the money stacked on the table and knowing that the shit is short.

An arsenal of handguns is lifted and aimed at Greg.

I smile as I stand behind Louis, ready for the shit to go the fuck off—which always happens when you get a bunch of niggas together.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, mutherfuckas. Whoa.” Greg’s eyes bug out as he jacks up his hands. “Louis, how you going to kill me? We’re cousins, man!”

“Nigga, you’re like my fifth cousin twice removed and shit. Ain’t nobody going to be crying foul over that bullshit,” Louis sneers. His frame is littered with tats of pythons, teardrops, names of fallen street soldiers, and, more importantly, a big six-pointed star representing the Black Gangster Disciples. Louis isn’t just a member of the violent gang; in Memphis he is the head nigga in charge. Everybody in South Memphis knows my nigga don’t fuck around when it comes to his money, drugs, territory, and women—in that order.

The seriousness of the situation hits Greg like a ton of bricks. The young nigga’s face twists like he smells something nasty while his eyes manage to squeeze out a few tears.

That shit only angers Louis even more. “Nigga, is you about to start crying and shit?”

The surrounding brothers snicker and cheese. It takes everything I have not to start instigating shit by yelling, Put a cap in his ass. This was a family situation. Everybody needs to fall back and let Louis handle his.

Louis snatches off his shades and rakes his black gaze up and down his cousin. Despite his hard-earned muscles, Louis has a face only a mother can love. But the brother has presence, power, and mad respect. “If you going to be big, bad, and bold and steal from a nigga, then man up.” He hammers a fist hard against his own chest. “Pump that shit out and meet Lucifer like a fuckin’ soldier.”

“I’m trying,” Greg cries. “But, Louis, I didn’t—”

Before Greg can finish the sentence, Louis snatches his burner from the hip of his jeans and straight shoots his cousin in the foot.

“Aaagh!” Greg hits the warped and dusty hardwood floor with a quickness.

Everyone jumps back and watches the family drama unfold like it was some shit on cable.

I smack a hand over my mouth to prevent myself from laughing out loud.

Louis scratches at his scruffy face with the side of his gun as he walks over to his cousin and squats down.

Greg grabs his bleeding foot and carries on with the theatrics. “C’mon, Louis. You know I got a lil man and shit I gotta take care of. I’m planning on marrying his momma next week at the courthouse. Please don’t kill me. I don’t know why the shit is short. I’ll get whatever is missing back to you. I promise. I promise. Just don’t kill me.”

“Nigga, quit all that hollering. You’re embarrassing yourself—and me.”

To Greg’s credit, he does attempt to quiet down, but then he starts snotting up.

“Lookie here, cuz. I’m going to be brutally honest with your ass. I don’t think this is the business for you. You sloppy with your shit. Word is you bumping your gums to anybody who’ll stand still long enough, and now you got Momma Peaches on my ass twenty-four/seven. A nigga like me don’t need the extra stress. You feel me?”

Greg whimpers.

“Now, I’m going to cut your ass a break, and in return I want you to keep your punk ass out of my face. If not…the next bullet”—he places the gun against Greg’s chest—“is going to hit where it counts. We clear?”

Greg meets his cousin’s black stare to see what most niggas usually saw: death.

“We clear?” Louis presses.

“Clear.” Greg swallows the knot clogging his throat and damn near chokes to death.

Louis nods and stands. “One of y’all niggas take this punk muthafucka to get fixed up. And the rest of y’all get this shit cleaned up. Momma Peaches is going to be here any minute, and she’s going to be pissed if she sees blood and shit.”

Niggas get busy as Louis dumps his cash into a Hefty bag and then sweeps the shit over his shoulder.

I have to admit I’m turned on, watching my man do his thing. Nobody comes harder or keeps it more real than my thuggish boo. Every nigga up in this joint knows that shit—just as they know that it takes the baddest nigga in the 901 to handle his ass. And there’s no doubt about it; I’m that guy with the tightest ass, the meanest head game, and the quickest trigger finger.

From the moment I’d laid eyes on Louis, I wanted to be the Bonnie to his Clyde. Real talk there’s something dangerous and sexy as hell about his ugliness. I ain’t the only one who feels that way. My nigga has five different seeds running around by five different bitches; all of them just as ugly as they daddy.

But none of that shit fazes me. Those little niggas were all on the scene before I claimed the throne as head bitch of the Queen Gs—the homo gang that keeps the Disciples, or what most around here called 6 poppin’: Sexed up and stress free.

I have only one true responsibility in life: looking out for my sixteen-year-old brother, Zayn. We came up in the foster system. Nobody seems to know shit about what happened to our parents. Guess we’re supposed to believe that we just sprouted out from under a rock or some shit. So for most of our lives, we moved from one home to another, watching people collect checks for taking us in. Shit changed when my booty rounded and my dick got bigger. Suddenly I had to endure a few foster daddies and uncles who liked to play with my boy pussy and stuff my mouth with a different kind of lollipop in the middle of the night.

None of those muthafuckas paid attention to my tears or gave a shit that I’d gone to bed with my asshole bleeding. In fact, no one gave a shit until I saw one of them seriously eyeballing my little brother. I finally took action by slicing up one of those child-molesting muthafuckas while his ass was sleeping. Then suddenly I was the crazy one and had to be locked up in a group home.

For two years, I was separated from my brother. The hardest part was always wondering how Zayn was or what he was doing. Would some doped-up muthafucka put him through the same hell I went through? Those couple of years was when I realized that I had seriously fucked up and had failed my brotha.

How could I do my job looking after him from a damn group home?

However, that was where I had gotten my education in street politics. Drugs and boosted loot floated in and out of that group home like it was a fucking flea market. Despite all the heavy shit I could get my hands on, my drug of choice was weed—purple haze, to be exact. That shit made everything better: food, sex—just fucking life.

I first heard about the Queen Gs while lying in bed at that place. This dyke bitch, Sameka, just straight raped this chick Lovey with some metal dildo because she thought the girl jacked one of her chains. Nobody helped the girl because no one liked her big-boned ass. The next day, Sameka found her chain and realized the shit wasn’t missing after all. When someone suggested she apologize to Lovey, Sameka smirked and claimed the bitch enjoyed the shit.

And she must’ve, because to this day, Lovey is still Sameka’s main bitch. But back then, seeing the power that Sameka wielded was mind-blowing to me. Bitches jumped when Sameka said jump, and they jacked who she said needed to be jacked.

The only thing was, I didn’t know how to go about asking to join the Queen Gs. At first, I worried that I would have to let that mean bitch rape or beat my ass. Turned out, I had great reason to worry because that was exactly what happened. Four chicks held me down and took turns beating my ass. Shit. I had to stay in bed for damn near two weeks after that shit, but it was a small price to pay for the kind of world that opened up to me after that.

Next thing I knew, I was flying high, boosting shit from Hickory Ridge Mall for Momma Peaches’s network and jacking cars headed out to the Tunica casinos. It wasn’t great money, but it was enough to make sure I kept decent clothes on my back and something other than chicken in my belly.

When I finally left the group home and was placed with my brother at the Douglases in midtown, I felt like I’d been sent to another planet. The biggest change was in Zayn. He thought he was good and grown and didn’t have to listen to me anymore.

Where I had been hard and jaded, Zayn believed his shit didn’t stink, with his straight As and being a star on the track team. What really hurt was Zayn thinking that I was crazy whenever I tried teaching his slow ass about how to navigate through the politics of the streets.

Zayn just acted like he was above it all, not recognizing that it was my status that kept him safe—not only from the other Queen Gs but also from the Flowers and the Crippettes. But that was cool with me, seeing how my brother might actually have a chance of escaping Memphis’s rat hole and actually making something of himself. If that happened, then maybe—just maybe—it would make some of the bullshit I’ve gone through worth it.

When I was rising up the ranks, I was a good foot solider, but I wanted more and set my sights higher. In order to do that, I needed to do something that would catch the HNIC’s attention. That meant locking down Louis also known as Python, a nigga who got his name for all the damn snakes he has slithering around his house. Louis’s kryptonite is ass—the tighter the better. He especially likes boys who have a different look.

At sixteen, I got a fake ID so I could strip at Louis’s club, the Pink Monkey. From the moment I stepped out on the floor, I made sure I put niggas in a trance: winding my hips and popping my oil-slick booty like my damn life depended on it. But the Benjamins didn’t start raining until I showed that I could swallow a big, long banana whole. That night, Louis gave the order to bring me to his office…

_I was so excited. At the time, this was nothing more than a power move, if all went right. Of course, there was no guarantee that Louis wouldn’t just fuck me and then put me back out in the stable, so somehow I had to make that first meeting memorable._

_When I stepped into his office, it was smoky as hell. My weedology degree told me that Louis was puffing on some blueberry AK-47. I was high before I even got to the center of the room. Up until that moment, I’d seen Louis around the way, but never close enough to actually get a good look at him. But standing there in that room, staring into that face, I knew my life would never be the same._

_I must’ve stood there forever while he inspected me in my string thong and black flower pasties. While he looked at me, I kept an eye on the red and silver corn snakes that swirled around his meaty arms and hands._

_I knew then what I had to do. None of the guys liked Louis’s snakes, and to be honest, I wasn’t too keen about them either. But on that day, I pushed all that bullshit to the back of my head and walked over to his chair unbidden._

_“Can I play with your snake?” I asked in a schoolboy voice that caused the side of his lip to curl. I’d never seen a smile that made someone even uglier, but for some reason the shit turned me on so hard that my dick started swelling right before his eyes._

_Louis stretched out one hand and allowed one of his friends to slither up the center of my belly and then up on my chest._

_I smiled and locked gazes with Louis, letting him know that I wasn’t scared of a damn thing._

_His lips spread wide as if recognizing that he’d finally found his ride-or-die guy. When he licked his fat lips, I saw that the nigga had had his tongue surgically forked to look like that of a snake. I couldn’t wait to feel that shit smacking my ass. No doubt, he knew how to work it._

_The corn snake slid up over one shoulder and then looped around my neck. Still I didn’t flinch. Louis stood up, yanked down his baggy jeans, and showed me a cock that was long and veiny. — The head was pink and looked like an overbaked muffin top. As he stared at me, precum started to drip from the tip._

_“You got a pretty bussy”, he said flatly._

_That shit threw a monkey wrench in my plans. I was already wondering how I was going to stuff that fat head into my mouth, but my ass? Suddenly I remembered all those nights when I'd gone to bed crying, bleeding in my underwear. I seriously didn't think I could do it._

_But this was a chance of a lifetime. Becoming Louis’s nigga meant no more menial carjacking and drug-muling shit._

_“Whatever you want, Daddy,” I said, wiggling my ass as if I couldn’t wait for him to split me wide open. And that was just what the fuck he did—rammed into me raw and fucked me with no remorse._

_If I’m proud of anything, it was of my ability to not shed a single tear. Instead, I should have won an Oscar for all the panting and moaning I did. Lucky for me, he had a quick nut that night and blasted off all over my back._

_“You a good little soldier, Pa,” he praised. But seconds later, I was shown the door._

_For six months, I thought I’d ripped my asshole for nothing and went back to playing my position on the poles and doing a little drug-muling on the side until word started circulating that Louis had put his latest baby momma, Shariffa, in the hospital because he caught her ass cheating. Nigga she was cheating with was found on the side of the road in a car that had so many bullets holes it looked like black Swiss cheese._

_To this day, the Memphis police still had the case open with no leads._

_Of course, everybody knew who sent that nigga to the devil’s door. Just like every bitch in the Queen Gs was hyphy for the number-one position even before the ambulance showed up to take Shariffa to the hospital._

_I’d hoped and prayed to catch Louis’s attention again, but I was never in a position where I could see him, much less be alone with him. But one night after my set at the club, there he was, wanting another go with my ass. Without missing a beat, I turned it up to him and then braced myself for a rough ride._

_Louis didn’t disappoint. He turned my asshole into a crime scene and then hosed it down with a thick, heavy load. Determined not to have him just roll up on out of there, I washed him down and then gave him a sample of my mean head game. I candy-coated that cock from its head to its balls. The shit was crazy explosive._

_I loved it. It was like fucking a dangerous beast that was trying to pound the lining out of my ass. I fell in love with that muthafucka that night, and I promised myself that I would do anything and everything to become the Head Bitch in Charge—and I succeeded._

That was three years ago.

“C’mon, baby,” Louis says, pulling me out of my memories. He hands me the Hefty bag of money and then smacks me on the ass. “Get the molasses outcha ass. Momma Peaches is going to be here any minute.”

“Okay, Daddy. Whatever you say.”

 


	3. Maura (Momma Peaches)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maura gets out of jail and gets a surprise from the Black Gangster Disciples.

“You leaving today, Momma Peaches?” Bonita shouts from three cells down.

I cock a half smile. “Hell, yeah. I’m tired of looking at all these damn gray-haired pussies up in this bitch. I’m getting out of here and finding my ass a young buck to breast-feed.” I lick my fingertips and then smooth down the edges of my hair while I waited for the guards. “These slow muthafuckas need to hurry the fuck on. My nephew is going to do it up and throw his auntie a surprise welcome-home party.”

Bonita’s cackle bounces off the cement walls. “It ain’t a surprise if you know about the shit.”

“Maybe not, but a party is a party. And nobody throws a party like my baby Python.”

“I know that’s right,” Bonita agrees. “I got hold of some shit at one of his parties some years back, and I swear to God my ass was high for six damn months. His ass be slanging the good shit for real.”

I snicker. “You going to do something, then you might as well be the best. That’s what I always say.” I tap my foot, impatient. Ten months on lockdown was more than enough for me, and way too much time for the amount of shit the police found in my car. Hell, I didn’t even know the shit was in the car. If I had, I would have invited my bingo girls over and had myself a party.

The only reason my innocent-grandma act didn’t work was because I had a rap sheet a mile long, and everyone in the department knew my nephew. I’m getting too old to be dipping in and out of jail for bullshit. I can’t remember how many times I’d told my knuckleheaded nieces and nephews not to be stashing shit at my place. One of these days, there’s going to be a fuckup and I’ll have to serve some real-ass time, and then I will really be pissed.

I am what most of the young kids nowadays call an old-school lady gangsta. I’d been in the game since back in the ’50s when my nana Maybelle vowed not to return to the cotton fields in Mississippi. Niggas were free, but in their neck of the woods, cotton picking was still the only thing most of them knew how to do. But on Beale Street, the economic situation was a different story entirely. From the music, gambling, and drugs, black folks was coming up and pissing off a lot of people.

When I first started out, I helped run numbers up and down Beale Street. Nana Maybelle was a trip. She went toe-to-toe with a lot of niggas trying to hustle her out of her operation. She didn’t play that shit and was known for busting a hollow point in people’s ass in a hot minute.

At ten, I wasn’t allowed to pack heat, but Nana Maybelle taught me how to wield a straight razor. By sixteen, I must’ve sliced more than a hundred niggas trying to jack my shit. They all found out the hard way that Nana Maybelle and I were cut from the same cloth.

Sixteen was also when I fell in love for the first time; he was this fine redbone named of Manny. It was also the first time I had ever seen a black man with green eyes. Manny had charm and style and could play a mean saxophone. People came from miles to hear his ass play. Men wanted to shake his hand. Women came hoping to land themselves a husband.

I wasn’t really any different, especially after I ignored Nana’s rule about keeping my legs closed at all times. But there was just something about that green-eyed devil that made me want to do things I didn’t even understand. The fact that he was twice my age only made the situation better in my eyes. I wasn’t fucking around with no boy. I had a grown man teaching me how to work the greatest prize God gave women—a pussy.

It’s been more than fifty years, and I remember that first nut like it was an hour ago…

_Manny wasn’t no big nigga. He was an even six feet tall, lean and smelled like Lifebuoy soap. But what was so memorable about Manny was the way he played my body like it was his beloved saxophone. That nigga was never in a rush. Making love in his crammed apartment with just one slow, rotating fan was hot, sticky, and nasty—in a good way._

_I didn’t get shit past Nana Maybelle. She knew the morning after that some nigga had busted my cherry just by the way I was walking. Instead of scolding me, Nana Maybelle just shook her head and told me, “A hard head makes a soft ass.”_

_For months I had stars in my eyes. It was just a matter of time before Manny slipped a ring on my finger. ’Course, Manny didn’t get the Western Union wire on that shit. Manny quickly educated me to the ways of a playa. He had more bitches than the Southland Park’s dog tracks. I denied the truth for a while until I caught him in a back alley with his head buried beneath some chick’s skirt._

_Enraged, I sliced up the girl and landed in the back of a paddy wagon. Back then, the police didn’t give a fuck about black-on-black crime. I stayed about a night behind bars, and the next day I was right back in Manny’s arms, listening to his sweet lies about how that bitch meant nothing to him. I was the one he loved. Yet, when I pressed for a ring, he silenced me by drumming his thick tongue against my fat clit until I was practically climbing the walls._

_“Damn, baby. You taste like peaches,” he moaned._

_This was about the time a lot of brothers were getting angry about this white boy who had stolen the Negro sound off Beale Street and was now making mad money. Once one white boy starts stealing, then they all of them start stealing. It went over hard for a lot of musicians like Manny, who wasn’t making anything more than chump change. Manny’s depression and frustration led him to heroin. It was the drug of choice back in those days._

_In the beginning, it really opened Manny’s mind and he was creating some wonderful music. Before long, people were tossing around the words music genius and Manny’s ego became a beast. He hooked up with a few promising bands, and he kept believing that his big break was just around the corner._

_Nana Maybelle saw how much cash was being moved around with this drug craze and got into the game big-time. With the money rolling in, she bought herself a big house and a fancy car and was straight confusing white folks to just who this Negro woman thought she was. But then, just like now, money talks and bullshit walks. She slung a couple of dollars around and cops left her the fuck alone._

_I benefited as well. My cheap clothes were replaced by silk dresses, fancy hats, and seamless stockings. When Manny and I stepped out, people said we gave Dorothy Dandridge and Harry Belafonte a run for their money._

_But all good things must come to an end._

_Manny never did get his big break. He never put a ring on my finger. And he never kicked his heroin habit._

_Despite those things, I held on—until one of Manny’s baby mommas called me and told me that Manny had died of an overdose while she was sucking his dick. I never knew if the latter part was true, but it didn’t help that the woman who called was the same bitch I’d sliced up years ago._

_Nana Maybelle did spare me the I-told-you-so speech, but I was crushed all the same. The only thing Manny left me was memories and a small heroin habit of my own._

“Maura Gallagher!” a female guard shouts.

I spring to my feet. “Here I go!”

“Got your walking papers, girl.”

“It’s about damn time.” I stroll over to the bars just as the guard shouts for them to be opened.

Women line their cells to yell their well-wishes, and some of the haters shout that it was just a matter of time before my old ass would be back. Lord, I hope not. On the condition of my parole, I’m strapped with an electronic tag around my ankle along with a curfew. However, as the officer is fitting the device around my left ankle, it takes everything I have not to bust out laughing.

I catch a few questionable looks, but I straighten my face and thank the officer when he’s done. When I stroll out of Memphis’s Federal Correctional Institution, I spot a black Escalade with a driver who resembled my best friend Josie’s grandbaby, Arzell. It has been a minute since I’ve seen him, but baby boy has developed into a fine specimen.

“Boy, look at you,” I say, approaching. “C’mon over here and give Momma Peaches a kiss.”

Arzell clearly doesn’t want to engage in any PDA, but everyone knows that I’m the momma Queen G in the nest, and he does what he’s told.

I hug him tight and then playfully squeeze his ass.

“There you go.” Arzell chuckles. “I’ve been warned about you.”

“What?” I ask innocently.

“Just get in the car.” He laughs, opening my door. When I turn, he pays me back by smacking me on the ass.

“Whoo!” I glance over my shoulder and receive a wink from the young buck. “Yeah. I’m going to fuck you. Watch.” I climb into the large vehicle before one of the cops gets the idea to run his face through their database and come out here and arrest his ass for any host of reasons. “A’ight. I’m ready for my party!”

Arzell frowns. “What party, Momma Peaches?”

“Boy, don’t play with me,” I sass, mushing the side of his head. “Python better be throwing me a party or I’ll turn that big nigga over my lap.”

“Now that’s some shit I’d like to see.”

I grinned as I look over at him. Damn, he’s a fine young buck. “How old are you now?”

The side of Arzell’s face cocks up. “Twenty-three.”

“That’s old enough.” My gaze skitters down to his lap, but with his baggy jeans, there’s no way for me to know what he’s packing.

“Old enough for what?”

“You’ll find out,” I tease.

Despite being a “senior citizen,” I never bought the notion that at a certain age a woman is supposed to put her pussy out to pasture. If anything, good and regular sex does wonders for migraines and keeps up one’s flexibility. It also helped that, over the years, I’ve made sure to keep my cute figure in check. My hair is just as healthy and bouncy as ever. I keep just a small silver patch in the front and dye the rest of it back to my natural color of off blonde. The bottom line, I never have and never will have a problem getting a man—of any age.

As we roll through town, I’m once again struck by how my beloved Memphis is one part clean and picturesque and two parts dirty and run-down. The drug and gang wars have the city by the fucking throat, and there’s no sign of it ever letting go.

I feel no guilt over my part in the drug game. All my life, I, like Nana Maybelle, have been making a way out of no way. I wear the title of Momma Queen G or Momma Peaches proudly. The men and women with the Black Gangster Disciple are my family. That’s the way it is and the way it’ll always be.

The minute I spot my brick house, a big ole smile stretches across half my face. I smack my lips, ready for both a drink and a fat blunt to make me feel oh so lovely. Before the Escalade even comes to a full stop, I’m already opening my car door and preparing to hop out.

“Hold up, Momma Peaches. I got you.” Arzell cuts the engine and rushes to help me out.

“Baby, don’t get it twisted and start treating me like I’m some lil old lady. I got this.”

“A’ight.” Arzell tosses up his hands. “It’s all you, Momma.”

“And don’t you forget it.” I lift my head and stroll up to my front door, knowing full well that Arzell’s big, young chocolate eyes are following each sway of my hips. As I suspect, the front door is unlocked and when I step into my house, the place is pitch black.

“Humph,” I say, playing along. “I wonder why it’s so dark in here.” I flip the switch by the door. Niggas jump out of the woodwork like cockroaches.

“Surprise!”

I light up while tears burn the back of my eyes. “Now this is what I’m talking about. Somebody pass me a blunt and let’s get this muthafuckin’ party started!”


	4. Yolanda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Yolanda, a girl that gives Niall the chance to taste her ebony pussy.

The music from Maura’s welcome-home party is bumping so hard all the walls up and down Shotgun Row are jumping and trembling. But nobody says shit because everybody loves Peaches—me included. As far as I’m concerned, Peaches is like a second momma, only better. She has always tried to look out for me, despite the fact that I’m a little hardheaded. Still, I have nothing but love for the feisty old lady.

Back in the day, she saved me from my drunk, no good daddy (though I found out years later that he really wasn’t my daddy) when he came at me with a broken beer bottle. Peaches had stepped in, bold as you please, asking him what the hell he thought he was going to do with that bottle. Daddy charged toward Peaches. However, Peaches had something for his ass. Instead of slicing her up, he got sliced. Hell, she was so fast, nobody even saw when she’d reached for her blade. It was just swish-swish-swish—like some old Zorro shit, and the nigga went down, grabbing his face and hollering like a bitch.

My momma, Betty, was pissed about that shit, and to this day blames Peaches for chasing her man off.

“Shit. Betty should be grateful—I did her ass a favor,” Peaches would always say whenever Betty’s venom dripped into her ears.

I agree.

I don’t even remember how old I was when the shit went down. My daddy had already banged me up pretty bad because he claimed I’d back talked him. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t—I don’t remember. However, I do remember laughing my ass off when Peaches lopped the nigga’s ear off.

Peaches looked at me like I was crazy. But the shit was just funny. After that, people up and down Shotgun Row started saying that my elevator didn’t quite reach the top. Teachers told Betty on the regular that I was slow and needed to be on Ritalin. Keeping it real, the shit was just a legal high and turned me into a zombie.

Teachers and the neighborhood kids still called me slow no matter how hard I tried to be like them. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to be popular. I used to let people borrow what few good clothes and toys my momma scraped up only for them not to return them or fuck them up before giving them back. In junior high, a few of the kids were curious about my Ritalin, so I let them try it. I got into some major shit for that. Soon after, a boy I liked, Jimmy Gaines, gave me a box of Lemonheads to let him put his dick in my mouth. I did it—and then the next day another boy asked, and then another.

I finally became popular—at least with the boys. They even gave me the nickname Lemonhead.

I didn’t care. Boys loved me, especially when my body started to resemble a Coke bottle, and I proved that I was a certified freak when it came to sexing the 6 poppin’ crew. School turned out not to be my thing; books always hurt my head. So I dropped out in the ninth grade and started hustling. When my momma couldn’t afford my medication, I turned to the street shit and found it all made me feel about the same.

But now I’m tired of just being a mule, hauling shit everywhere and spreading my legs for every foot solider in Louis’s crew and getting next to nothing for my troubles. I might not be book smart, but I know that shit ain’t fair. Other bitches started moving up the ranks faster than me, and they didn’t do half the shit I did.

My gaze cut across Momma Peaches’s living room to where Harry is doing his old stripper pole routine all up and down Louis’s leg. I can’t stand that bitch, always flossing shit Louis laces him with, thinking that all the Queen Gs are here just to lick his ass. The fag thinks he’s the shit just because he's white. So? Most of us niggas up in here are mixed with some other shit. Hell, I know my ass is rounder and can clap harder than his. Ain’t that all a bitch needs to lock down a nigga—that and to know they way around the kitchen?

Sure, Louis is a little hard on the eyes, and he does freak me out with all those damn snakes, but being with his ugly ass means money, power, and respect. There isn’t a bitch up in here who isn’t feeling that.

He also has a slew of rug rats running around Memphis, and all his baby mommas are laced up nice, rocking Chanel this and Gucci that even if they are still living in different projects. Everybody keeps waiting for his ass to drop another seed, but it’s been three years and Harry can't get pregnant anyway.

“Damn, girl. You keep staring at Harry, he’s going to come over here and smack the taste out your mouth.”

I glance over my shoulder to see Niall, one of Louis’s old road dawgs, flashing his platinum grillz.

“You got a big-ass sign that says ‘HATER’ flashing on your forehead. Better turn that shit off before you embarrass yourself,” he jokes above Jay-Z’s latest joint while puffing on a blunt so fat it looks like a Cuban cigar.

I calmly reach over and remove the blunt from his mouth and toke on it for a few puffs. “I just don’t see what he got that I ain’t got. That’s all.”

“He keeps the nigga happy. And he has a big dick and ass. That’s all that matters, ain’t it?” Niall looks down my white, mesh, see-through top, drooling over my large ebony-tipped nipples. “Damn, you believe in advertising your shit, huh?”

“When you got it, you flaunt it, right?”

His gaze roams as he smacks his lips. “Sheeit, girl. How did you get all that ass into those booty shorts?”

“One cheek at a time.” I puff out a ring of smoke and smile into his blue eyes. I can tell by how low his eyelids are that he’s already fucked up, but I also know that he’s higher up the food chain than the wildin’ out foot soldiers I usually deal with.

“Is that blood in my carpet?” Momma Peaches harps, squinting down at the floor.

Niall props one hand on the wall above my head and continues talking to my titties. “Looky here, are you rolling with anybody here?”

I brush my braided blond extensions back from my face. “No. Why?”

“’Cause I’m thinking about raping your fine ass,” he says, smiling. “Damn titties got my dick hard.” He takes a swig from his beer bottle. “For real, those muthafuckas are staring me straight in my eyes. Hypnotizing a muthafucka.”

I smile. I’m used to getting this kind of reaction from niggas. “You ain’t got to do all that, Daddy,” I say in my best seductive schoolgirl voice, which I’ve perfected. “I’m feeling you, too.”

“For real?” He smacks his lips some more and then glances around. Every inch of the place is crawling with muthafuckas. A few card tables have been propped up, and serious dominoes and poker games are under way. In between those, soldiers are grabbing Queen Gs left and right and are rocking the same two-step no matter what’s spitting out the speakers. “Let me holler at you out back.” Without waiting for a response, Niall takes my hand and leads me toward the back screen door.

“Damn, Louis,” Peaches complains. “I told you to convince Greg to get out of the game—not shoot his ass.”

Niggas laugh.

“Peaches, how about a dance?” Rufus asks, squeezing in between her and Arzell. Everybody knows he’s been sweating Peaches for decades.

“If you don’t get your old ass up out of my face!”

The crowd roars again.

There are even more niggas crawling outside, most of them hanging by the grill and food table, loading up on grub like they ain’t ate in weeks. The rest are either dancing or leaning against the back fence and swigging down Buds.

“Shit.” Niall cups his meat like his hard-on is getting to be too much to handle.

I smile at his frustration. In my head, I’m calculating. If I can lock down a lieutenant like Niall, maybe my hustlin’ days are over. I can be one of the Queen Gs who spends her time shopping and rocking the latest fashions. This nigga isn’t Louis, but surely he’s the next best thing.

“Ain’t no thang, Daddy. I live just a couple of doors down.” I puff out another smoke ring and feel my eyelids go heavy. I look at the blunt and wonder about all the sudden tingling sensations spreading throughout my body. Hell, it was stronger than the shit my best friend, Baby Thug, be rolling. “What’s in this shit?”

“Ayo, man. That’s a Niall specialty blend. My shit going to have you feeling loverly.” He rubs on my arm, but then does a sneak wraparound and squeezes my booty. “Damn, girl, you thick as hell.”

I giggle and lick my lips. “C’mon, Daddy. Let me hook you up.” I take him by the hand and then proceed to start stumbling out the yard.

Niall laughs. “Aw. You’re feeling the shit now, huh?”

I laugh. Saying that I feel good is a serious understatement. At some point while I try moving through the crowd, I’m convinced that I’m not walking but floating through the scene with Lil Wayne’s old hot track “Lock and Load” blasting through the street. Suddenly, the air is charged with a different kind of energy—a dangerous energy. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I glance to my left and then to my right.

My gaze locks onto a dusty brown Chevy Impala cruising down the crowded street. Behind the wheel, a short muthafucka with thick cornrows and cheap mirror sunglasses catches my attention and blows my high. Who’s that muthafucka? But my brain is working slower than usual.

“FORKS UP!” Niall yells, shoving a hand against my back, tripping me out of my pumps and sending me careening toward the sidewalk.

I scream just as my exposed skin hits concrete and I scrape a good foot along pebbles, broken glass, and God only knows what else.

**POP! POP! POP! POP!**

**RA-DA-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

Bullets fly everywhere.

Startled and hysterical screams fill my ears while I’m still a little dazed and confused. An army of Gangster Disciples pours out the houses on Shotgun Row, guns blazing. There’s a loud screech from the Impala’s tires, and the evening air is blanketed with the scent of burning rubber.

**POP! POP! POP! POP!**

**RA-DA-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

The Impala attempts to make a sharp turn off the street but instead crashes into a parked black Escalade. Disciples proceed to turn the Impala and the three niggas inside it into Swiss cheese. When I sit up, I watch as the dead bodies jump and wiggle around as a barrage of bullets hits them.

“YEAH! YEAH!” Niall starts jumping around, throwing his fist in the air. “FUCK THEM NIGGAS UP!” He runs over to the car just as most of 6 poppin’ crew are pulling the doors open and jerking bodies out. Niall is one of the first to start stomping the niggas into the ground.

I pull myself off the sidewalk and then inspect my legs and arms to see what the damage is. Relieved to find only a few cuts and bruises, I start laughing about the near-death experience.

**WHOOSH!**

I glance up to see the old Impala now ablaze. I can’t feel sorry for those niggas, even if I wanted to. What the hell were they thinking rolling through our hood and attempting to do a massive drive-by? Everybody in Memphis knows that Shotgun Row is the muthafuckin’ heart of the Gangster Disciples’ territory. Clearly these niggas were trying to impress somebody and got caught up.

Niall races back over to me, shooting his gun straight into the air. “YEAH! YEAH! You see that shit?” He stumbles. “Whoa.”

I smile. “For sure. You handled yours, Daddy.”

“Damn straight.” His greedy eyes roam my figure. “I done smoked me some la, capped me some Vice; all I need is some pussy to call it a day.”

I frown as my gaze falls to the blood soaking his T-shirt. “Did you get hit, Daddy?”

Niall follows my line of vision and then looks surprised. “Oh shit.” He lowers his gun and pulls up his T-Shirt.

All I can make out is blood and pulverized flesh before he slumps to his knees. “Those muthafuckas!” He swears under his breath, drops his gun, and then passes out.

I stare at my golden ticket to rising up in the Queen Gs and can’t believe my eyes. I walk over to him on bruised knees and check for a pulse. When I can’t find one, my tears swell. _“Now what the fuck am I going to do?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip niall. i hope you're enjoying this xoxoxo i'm uploading the next chapter when i hit 500 views :) also please comment if you like it


	5. Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry proves he's a bad bitch to Louis and all of the Queen Gs.

I’m high as hell, grinding my hips and clapping my ass in Louis’s face when these pussy, punk muthafuckas start blasting down Shotgun Row. Next thing I know, my arm is on fire and Louis is shoving me to the floor and reaching for his chrome. There isn’t even time for me to question what the fuck is happening before he charges the front door with the rest of the set.

But it’s hard to keep a good gangsta bitch down. I roll up off the floor and reached for the 9 mm I keep strapped to my right calf. Even Momma Peaches goes for her cast-iron umbrella stand and rises up with an HK SL8 assault weapon, ready to rock-a-bye any nigga who gets in her way.

In the short time it takes for me to hustle my way to the front yard, the brown Impala has crashed and niggas are pulling bodies out of the car and stomping their asses like cockroaches. Niggas whoop and holler, acting like they just got their freedom papers.

“Is y’all sure that’s all of them?” Momma Peaches asks, clutching her weapon and peeking around the corner of the front door like some real commando.

I laugh. “Yeah, those trick ass—” From the corner of my eye, I see Niall drop like a stone.

“FUCK!” Rage twists Louis’s face before he plows through a crowd of niggas and hoofs it up the cracked sidewalk.

I race after him. My heart pounds in the center of my throat. Everyone knows that Louis and Niall have known each other since they were baby seeds. They grew up and blew up together. They were the kings of Shotgun Row, and the thought of some miscellaneous niggas rolling through our block and blasting one of them off their throne is just too much to wrap my brain around.

Louis drops to his knees and snatches Niall away from the chicken head crouching over him, but it’s clear by the way Niall flops over and the amount of blood painting the concrete that the Grim Reaper has collected one king and is marching him toward heaven’s ghetto.

“Fuck these muthafuckas!” Louis jumps up and throws punches in the air. “I want to know who the fuck sanctioned this shit, and then we ride the fuck out.”

“Vice, man,” a foot soldiers says. “I know I’ve seen that one dude dumping and running with those dirty niggas. You feel me?”

“McGriff,” Louis hollers as he heads back toward the burning Impala. “Verify this shit. Are those niggas tagged?”

An army of Disciples launch an immediate search of the two dead bodies that had been pulled from the wreckage. There are no flags, and none of the tats identify a gang affiliation.

“These muthafuckas are clean.”

“What the fuck?” Louis reaches their side and performs his own search. “You ain’t going to tell me that these niggas just decided to pop off down here by they damn selves.”

“Could’ve been just an initiation stunt,” McGriff offers, shaking his head, his hand still clutching his chrome.

Louis lifts his foot back and delivers a hard, swift kick to one of the dead man’s head. It’s clear he’s hot. Heat rolls off of him in waves. “These muthafuckas had names. I want them, plus where they lived, who they people is—you feel me? And if we get any muthafuckin confirmation that Fat Ace’s ass had anything to with this shit here, we’re blazing this city up. Six poppin’ five droppin’ tonight, baby. You feel me?”

“I feel you, man.” The men fist pound.

With flames and black soot coiling up toward the darkening sky, Louis turns his attention to the hundred deep surrounding him. His frame suddenly looks ten feet tall as he starts looking niggas one by one in the eye. “This shit here won’t stand. Niggas got us confused if they think they can roll down our shit, disrespecting Shotgun Row or any other block we got on lock.” His eyes cast back up a ways, where his road dawg still lay in the street. “Somebody get something to cover my nigga up. Show some muthafuckin’ respect!”

A few Queen Gs scramble to carry out the order.

Louis sniffs one time, but no tears drop from his eyes. “Niggas want to blast, we blast. We going to let the muthafuckas who are behind this shit know that they started a war! You feel me?”

“HELL YEAH!”

“We will not rest until we earth every one of those grimy muthafuckas!”

“HELL YEAH!”

The crowd of blue and black cheer their agreement, and some even shoot off a few bullets into the air.

I smile, loving how my man commanded everyone’s attention and respect. As I start to pump my fist into the air, that fiery pain surges back into my arm. How in the hell did I forget about that? I glance down and suck in a sharp breath as I notice my thin, bubble-gum-pink crop top darken with blood.

“Shit!” With my right hand still holding my nine, I use the tip of my pinky finger to pull up my short sleeve and reveal my gushing wound. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

Despite the amped-up crowd, I catch Louis’s attention. In a flash, he’s standing next to me, examining the wound. After a sec, one corner of his thick lips quirks up. “I can take care of this for you, Pa.”

I try to smile back, but my arm feels like straight fire now, and as sure as my ass is white, I know every member of the Queen Gs is watching me, so the option of crying like a bitch is completely taken off the table. To clamp down on the pain, I grind my teeth together as Louis leads me back through the crowd to Momma Peaches’s spot.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” Louis shouts, storming through the front door.

Niggas part like his ass is Moses.

We make a beeline to the kitchen.

“Let me get my shit,” Momma Peaches says, returning my weapon back to its hiding spot before rushing for the first-aid kit.

“I need some ice,” Louis says calmly.

Baby Thug, a short, thuggish shawty just barely kissing five feet with little mosquito bites for titties, quickly jerks open a couple of cabinets, grabs a large Glad bag, and then fills it with ice. Shortly after, the bag is pressed to my bullet wound.

I hiss but still manage to fight back tears.

Louis’s chest swells with pride. “That’s right, Harold. You can handle this shit.” He takes my gun from my clenched hand and sets it on the counter.

Momma Peaches whirls onto the scene like a hurricane. “How we doing in here?” She pops open the white box and starts pulling out bandages and medical tape.

“We’re numbing the shit up,” Louis says, moving to the stove and turning on an eye.

“Good. Good.” She turns toward the crowd at the kitchen door. “One of you niggas get me some alcohol. Either Scotch or some whiskey.”

“Get me something for her to bite down on—a stick or something,” Louis adds as he sets a large knife on the glowing stove eye.

Fear knots in my chest. My heart races. My head spins.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’m about to fix you on up.” He moves back to my side and removes the ice bag. “That’s long enough with that.” Louis produces a second knife and runs it under some cold water from the sink. “Now this shit might hurt for a minute, but you man up, baby. A’ight?”

I nod.

“Here you go, man.” Lethal, another lieutenant, steps up with a nasty little stick. He doesn’t even bother to wipe off the dirt and bugs.

Momma Peaches notices my scrunched-up face and snatches the stick from Lethal’s hand and runs it under the sink. “Better?” she asks.

I nod, though all I want to do is scream for them to get the fuck away from me. The stick is shoved into my mouth with Momma Peaches’s simple instruction to “Bite down.”

Louis smiles and wraps one of his large hands around my wounded arm and lifts it so that he can have a better look. Then I watch as the cold, wet knife descends to my arm like a hawk. In the next second, my entire world is nothing but pain as Louis’s knife digs around in my arm.

I growl and hiss, and then my teeth clamp down so hard that the stick snaps in half—but not a muthafuckin’ tear drops.

“That’s right, Harold. Hang in there. I almost got it.”

When the bullet eases out of my bloody arm, I expect some relief, but it doesn’t happen. Blood continues to gush and the pain is relentless.

“C’mon over here by the sink,” Louis says.

Momma Peaches removes the knife from the stove’s eye.

I spit the sticks out of my mouth and try to walk on legs that feel like they are filled with Jell-O. By sheer will alone, I make it over to the sink with my audience doubling in size.

“Goddamn.” One bitch winces. “Shouldn’t we be getting his gay ass to a doctor or something?”

Louis leans my arm over the sink and reaches for the bottle of Scotch. “Take a deep breath.”

Again, I follow orders, but damn near faint when the first drops of liquor splash against my arm. Suddenly Momma Peaches is right there to help hold me up. Still, I don’t scream or cry.

But the comments from the peanut gallery continue. “Aw, hell naw.”

“Sheeit!”

“Yeah, that’s my gangsta bitch right here. Niggas, y’all checking this shit out? Is my boy a solider or what?”

There’s a rumble of agreement and even a few cheers for me to hang in there.

“Some of y’all could learn a thing or two,” he boasts as he splashes Scotch all over my arm. “I ain’t going to call out no names, but I know a few of y’all would be hollering my damn ear off right about now.”

“Not me!”

“Nuh-uh!”

Louis rolls his eyes and then sets the bottle aside.

My ego doesn’t even trip. It takes all I have just to hang on. You can do this. You can do this. I repeat the words until I start to believe it. But then Louis reaches for the heated knife his aunt has taken off the stove. Tears finally rise up and sting my eyes, but I blink those muthafuckas back as I watch Louis bring the knife closer.

He licks his lips with his snakelike tongue. Louis loves inflicting pain. It doesn’t matter on whom. “Now I’m going to seal this shit up. A’ight?”

I draw in a sharp breath and summon courage from parts of my body that I didn’t know existed before I finally give Louis the nod to go ahead. You can do this. You can do this. Yet, doubt starts creeping up my spine. You can do this. You can do this.

“Look at me, baby,” Louis commands.

My jittering gaze makes its way up to my man’s eyes, and a strange calm settles over me as I stare into his soulless depths.

“Ready?” he asks.

I swallow as sweat blankets my face. “Ready.”

Louis presses the scorching knife against my skin.

My head explodes with pain while the sound of my skin sizzling fills my head. A scream rips from my throat before I have a chance to stop it. But it isn’t a bitch scream. It is more guttural and Herculean—like a nigga trying to bench-press twice his body weight.

More importantly, no tears fall.

Pride polishes Louis’s darkened eyes as he finishes sealing my wound and then wrapping my arm up with a tight gauzy bandage. When it is all over, he stands and inspects his work as police sirens fill the air. “You’re a bad bitch, baby.” His face twists into a menacing smile as he tilts up my chin. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.” He leans down and slithers his forked tongue into my mouth for a kiss.

I smile against his thick lips. Damn straight, I am—and don’t you ever forget it.


	6. Danielle

“We have a code purple reporting off Utah Avenue. Car thirty-four, are you still in the area?”

I groan and ground my teeth. Utah Avenue—better known as Shotgun Row. I’ve been on the force for four years, and I’m so sick of all the gang activity in this shitty-ass place I don’t know what to do. It’s dusk, there’s a blood-orange glow settling over the city I call Hell’s Paradise, and I’m more than ready to take my ass home, jump into a warm bath, and blaze up a fat blunt to relax my nerves.

“Car thirty-four, you roger?”

My partner and pain in my left ass cheek, Detective Keegan O’Malley, chuckles and reaches over for the hand radio. “Thirty-four, copy. We’re on our way.”

“Roger that, thirty-four. We have reports that there is eleven-forty-four on the scene. Car forty-three and fifty-four will assist.”

“Shit,” I spat. “We’re probably rolling up on a war.”

“If we’re lucky.”

I side eye O’Malley. No doubt my adrenaline-junkie partner is just looking for an excuse to shoot at niggas. The muthafucka is always acting like this gang shit is some kind of fucking video game and he’s the big exterminator who is going to rid Memphis of gangbangers. I suspect most of that blustering comes from all the steroids his ass be pumping. Oh, he would deny the shit, but I know nobody’s neck is supposed to be as thick as a tree trunk.

Sure, O’Malley works out all the time, but the shit still doesn’t seem natural. When he isn’t in the gym, his ass is at a gun range. He’s a perpetual solider who’d traded in shooting at sand niggas for the real thing. In Memphis, the badge is a license to shoot first and ask questions later—and nobody dares challenge that shit. The city at large knows what kind of battle we’re in with these street gangs, and they don’t ask too many questions as long as it appears that we’re doing our jobs.

Appearances aren’t everything.

The truth is much more sinister.

O’Malley laughs, his bald head rocking back and forth. “Don’t look at me like that. The sooner we get over there, the sooner we get off the clock and you can go back home to play with your cat.”

“Don’t start that ignorant shit with me,” I hiss, pressing the accelerator down to the floorboard as I whip around cars, trucks, and a little old lady taking her sweet-ass time trying to cross the road.

“What?” He laughs, cracking himself up. “When was the last fuckin’ time you even went out on a date, Detective Johnson?”

“That ain’t none of your goddamn business, O’Malley.”

He tosses up his hands, still smirking. “Fine. But if you ever need someone to scratch that itch—”

“Don’t even fuckin’ finish that goddamn sentence.”

“—I’ll be willing to take one for the team.”

As O’Malley’s laughter explodes from his chest, I imagine ramming his Mr. Clean head into the dashboard until I bust his face wide open. I can’t stand his racist ass, and I find it exasperating that he thinks shit is cool between us.

Far from it.

In the meantime, I bide my time. I don’t want to complain to my lieutenant—mainly because he’ll take my complaint to the captain, who just happens to be my father. It isn’t easy being the police captain’s daughter. Everyone is always eyeballing me to make sure I’m not receiving any special treatment. What they find instead is that I have it harder than anyone else. From the police academy to now, Captain Melvin Johnson made sure my superiors pushed me harder than everyone else. He wants to break what he calls my iron will so that I’ll quit and take my ass to college and law school like he always wanted.

But Daddy Dearest found out that his only daughter is just as tough and hardheaded as he is. Instead of receiving my colleagues’ envy, most times I garner their sympathies, which is worse.

For the most part, I have a reputation for being a bitch. I don’t put up with or take any shit from anyone. I’m strong. Five-eight, curvy, and no one can pinch more than an inch on my toned body.

During my short time on the force, I have been shot at more times than I care to count. One Latina puta loca managed to get a blade into my left side.

I fucked that bitch up over that shit.

Of course, the very thing that makes me so good at my job usually scares niggas off. I’m loud, domineering, and maybe a little quick to throw the first punch. But this is what happens when a woman works with and hangs out with a lot of men. I start talking and acting like them. Once that happens, it’s just a matter of time before people hurl names like dyke and carpet-muncher, thinking the shit is funny.

It isn’t.

My personal life isn’t anybody’s muthafuckin’ business. Never has been. To this day, I have never told anyone Christopher’s father’s name—or that we still get it on from time to time. Sure, some know, but they never got the information from me. So I put up with the jokes, the bullets, and the occasional broken bone because…Hell, I don’t know why. It isn’t like the job pays well, and respect in the black community is nonexistent. Maybe I’m addicted to the drama and the danger.

Shit. That means me and O’Malley do have something in common.

With lights flashing and the police siren blaring, we fishtail onto Shotgun Row with tires screeching. We’re instantly jolted back to the serious situation at hand when we spot a burning car at the opposite end of the road.

I slam on the brakes and jump out. In a flash, my weapon is out of its holster and gripped tightly in my hands. Everyone on the block hustles out of the way, a lot of them laughing and pointing fingers.

“Niggas got what the fuck they deserved,” a small voice shouts.

I whip my head around. “Who got what they deserved?”

A boy, who can’t be more than ten, glares back at me with dark eyes that seem to belong to an old soul. “The muthafuckin’ Vice Lords. Who the fuck you think, bitch?”

“Watch your mouth,” O’Malley snarls.

The young boy just rolls his eyes.

That’s when it hits me. The odd smell I’m picking up is the scent of burning flesh. One hand comes off my weapon as I press a finger against my nose in a weak effort to block the stench. “What happened here?” I bark at the kid.

His face immediately twists in disgust. “What? I ain’t no snitch, bitch.”

A few of his friends, all young with old faces, snicker in support. “Yeah, bitch. We ain’t snitches!”

“What the fuck did I tell you?” O’Malley leaps forward, acting like he’s ready to knock one of the boys off their bikes.

“Easy, O’Malley.” I roll my eyes. This Rambo wannabe muthafucka is going to get our asses blazed up on this damn street. I know every one of these niggas is packing more heat than the U.S. Army out here. I glance around the street. Just then, two backup patrol cars blaze onto the scene.

Our backup exits their cars, weapons drawn.

The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention as my eyes shift to one of the houses that has a yard full of people with music blaring. At the fence, an army of brothers stand with their arms crossed and their gazes daring me to walk my ass over to them. The whole scene makes me nervous, but they have it twisted if they think that Detective Danielle Johnson is some weak-ass bitch who can’t do her fucking job. I’ve earned my badge, and I’m not afraid of no muthafucka.

To prove my point, I holster my shit and stroll over to the fence with my chin up. About a hundred sets of eyes follow me to the fence. “Anybody want to tell me what the hell happened here?”

No one moves. Not even so much as an eye twitches.

“Somebody saw something,” I press.

Silence.

“Maybe we should call in a few wagons and haul everyone down to the station and ask our questions there?” My gaze shifts to each face on the front line. “You all look like fine, upstanding citizens. I’m sure none of you have any outstanding warrants or anything like that.”

Finally, a few gazes shift around.

“Ain’t nobody seen nothing,” a deep, gravelly voice says from behind the front line.

People shift and then part like the Red Sea.

Louis steps up with a stony expression. “You’re wasting your time here.”

I draw a deep breath and cock my head. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” A long glaring contest ensues. The only reason I’m the first to break the eye contest is because the dueling blares from the approaching fire truck and ambulance catch my attention.

“Anything?” O’Malley asks, walking up beside me.

“Of course not,” I answer. “As usual, everyone hears no evil and sees no evil.”

A corner of Louis’s lips curl as his eyes rape my curvy frame. “Don’t forget ‘speak no evil.’”

I stop my lips from kicking upward. “Smart-ass.” I turn away from him and mumble under my breath, “I’m sick of this gang bullshit. Go ahead and destroy this city. Why the fuck should I care?”

 


	7. Zayn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn thinks about his relationship with his brother, Harry, and gets an unexpected visitor in his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very deep talk............ also very deep ziam sex  
> goodbye friends

The Douglases are cool people. After a lifetime of bouncing around from one shitty foster home to another, the man upstairs finally did us a solid and brought Reggie and Tracee Douglas into our lives. The middle-class couple lives in a two-level, beige and gray stone craftsman bungalow on the edge of picturesque midtown. The lawn is green, the house is clean, and the neighbors are freakishly friendly.

The first biggest thrill when I first moved in was that I had my own room. Those first two years were like a dream as the childless couple rained money on everything from clothes to the latest computer gadgets. In the beginning, I resisted letting the Douglases buy my love. I kept waiting to peek out their hustle. I wasn’t stupid. Harry taught me early that everyone had a hustle.

At night, I kept counting the minutes and hours before my new stepfather started creeping to my door. Since Harry wasn’t there to shelter me, it would be my turn to cry into my pillow while some grown-ass man ripped my young ass to pieces. But night after night, Reggie Douglas never darkened my bedroom door.

Soon the days rolled into weeks and then months, and all the Douglases pushed was me getting an education, talking all this shit about how I can do or be anything as long as I put my mind to it. That shit was funny as hell the first hundred times I heard it. However, after a while, I realized that the Douglases were serious. They were a walking, talking public service announcement. If you had an education, you can do this, or if you had an education, you can do that.

Reggie is a history professor at the University of Memphis, and Tracee works part-time for the public library. They are complete squares. Books litter their house from one end to another. Most times if they weren’t reading a book, they were talking about one.

The first time they took me to the public library, they made it a big production, like it was a trip to Disney World or something. They gushed over just getting ready, and they were overly giddy during the short drive to the cement and glass building.

I didn’t see what the big deal was. That place had just as many books as the Douglases had at home. Then they made the big announcement: I was allowed to check out my very own book. Whoopie! It took everything I had not to roll my eyes. Were these people serious? But with their wide eyes on me, I felt tremendous pressure to pick out a really good book, something that would impress them, something worthy to talk about at the breakfast table. I must’ve roamed those shelves for hours before finally settling on Edward Bloor’s Tangerine. I knew it was a good choice by the way Tracee lit up like a Christmas tree.

After the first year, I concluded that Tracee and Reggie didn’t have a hustle. What you see is what you get. For a young boy of thirteen, it was a refreshing and welcome change of pace.

I began to trust them.

Then I began to love them.

It was odd at first. My feelings for the Douglases sort of felt like a betrayal to Harry. It was supposed to be just the two of us against the world, but life wasn’t working out that way. Harry was in a group home, and I was on my own.

I wasn’t stupid or naïve. I understood my brother got sent away because he was trying to protect me. But the Douglases offered something that was almost impossible for me to turn down: hope.

Inspired by my foster parents, I thought long and hard about what Reggie and Tracee were saying; then I started dreaming about my future instead of how to just survive the present. What if there was another life out there for me—something better than what the streets were promising? Harry wasn’t the only one I knew going in and out of juvenile hall. Hell, it was damn near everybody around me, including my best girl, Eleanor. She got popped on her thirteenth birthday after going on a home burglary spree out in Cordova with a group of Queen Gs.

That wasn’t the life I wanted for myself. Not if there was the possibility for something more. So I started to pay attention in school and found that I was a natural at math and science. Tracee mentioned that I would probably make a good doctor one day—and the idea stuck. Dr. Zayn Malik.

It had a nice ring to it.

Then a year later, Harry showed up. I was thrilled at first, but then I saw how much my older brother had changed. He was harder, louder, bitter, and rabid for the illusion of power, money, and respect that the street life promised. At the Douglases, everything went to hell in a handbasket—fast. At every chance Harry got, he’d curse out the Douglases, refuse to go to school, and rarely returned home. The times he did, he reeked of marijuana, sex, cough syrup and alcohol.

I hated to admit it, but I was actually embarrassed by my brother’s behavior. He was like a bull in a china shop, determined to break every dish that stood in her way. There were many days I wished he would just go back to the group home so the Douglases and I could go back to being happy, living our quiet suburban life. It was a horrible thing to wish for, but night after night I watched the Douglases pace and fret over Harry’s whereabouts. Soon my wish became a prayer. Then one night, God answered my prayer….

_It was late. Harry was dead set on proving that Reggie Douglas was no different than any other nigga and that he was just lying in bed with his perfect little wife but was dreaming that he was fucking one of us. Harry claimed that he caught him watching him switching his ass around the house. I didn’t believe it, so my brother set out to seduce him—to prove me wrong._

_I tried to talk him out of it—tried to convince him that Reggie wasn’t like our other foster fathers and uncles, but Harry wanted to prove that the Douglases weren’t worthy of my love and blind devotion. He preached that I needed to get my head out of the clouds and get back into the real world, where street smarts were all that a bitch needed to get by._

_Harry took a hot shower and oiled his body down. Old men love the idea of fucking lil boys. That’s why they always asking, ‘Who’s your daddy?’”_

_I frowned. I wasn’t aware of that tidbit._

_“Watch and learn,” Harry said with a smug smile, and then headed downstairs wearing nothing but a pink towel wrapped around his naked body._

_Reggie had fallen asleep watching ESPN in his favorite chair in the living room. I was scared—that my brother was right—and that I was wrong. If Reggie failed the test, would this set off a pattern of him creeping to our bedrooms? If he passed, would he be so angry that he would kick us both out? At first, I just paced around in my room, but then my curiosity started getting the best of me, and I crept toward the stairs so that I could at least hear what was going on. I didn’t need to bother, because when Reggie Douglas woke up, what I heard—what the entire neighborhood heard—was an explosion._

_“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME. PUT SOME FUCKIN’ CLOTHES ON! TRACEE!!”_

_I had just barely made it back to my room when Tracee fumbled out of the master bedroom and raced toward the stairs. “REGGIE? WHAT’S WRONG, REGGIE?”_

_My heart pounded everywhere: my head, my throat, my chest, my stomach. This was it. Harry had fucked it up for the both of us. Hot tears burned the backs of my eyes as hatred started boiling in my veins._

_“THAT’S IT! HE HAS TO GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!”_

_Harry raced back into our bedroom; his entire face was purple with anger and embarrassment. “Get your shit. We’re getting the fuck out of here!” He pulled out the torn duffel bag he had from the group home and started shoving clothes in it._

_I didn’t move._

_Harry crammed on underwear and tight jeans. “Didn’t you hear me? I said get your shit!”_

_“I’m not going,” I hissed through my gritted teeth._

_Harry froze as his homicidal gaze leveled on me. “What the fuck did you just say?”_

_“I said I’m not going anywhere,” I repeated, my hands balled into fists at my sides. “I told you not to go down there.”_

_“Don’t you fuckin’ start with me,” Harry said, determined to assert control. “I ain’t got time for your bullshit. Get your shit!”_

_“I’m not going.”_

_“YES THE FUCK YOU ARE.”_

_I swallowed and shook my head. “I like it here, Harry. Besides, where are we going to go?”_

_“Anywhere is better than these Huxtable wannabe muthafuckas.” He shoved on a Detroit Tigers jersey and matching cap, its gray and blue colors easily identifiying him with Gangster Disciples. “Now stop standing there like a scared chicken and c’mon.”_

_“No.”_

_Harry moved so fast that I barely registered what was about to happen, and by the time my brother’s hand whipped across my face, it was too late. I reeled back and hit the wall. For a few seconds, I felt like one of those cartoon characters with stars rotating around my head and a few tweeting birds. When I touched my burning face, it was soaked with tears._

_“When I tell you to do something, you fuckin’ do it, bitch! Now get your shit!”_

_“HE’S NOT GOING ANYWHERE.” Tracee burst into the room and thrust herself in between us. She was a tall woman, at least six feet, but flat chested and rail thin. On most days it looked like a good, stiff wind could snap her in two, but tonight she looked strong enough to take on Superman himself and stood a damn good chance of winning._

_Harry’s head whipped around toward the usually timid Tracee. “He’s my brother. He goes where the fuck I tell him to go.”_

_“No. That’s not how it works here.” Tracee lifted her chin. “I’m the head bitch in this house, and you will leave my man and my son alone.”_

_Harry glared, but Tracee seemed unfazed._

_“I’m not afraid of you, little boy.” She straightened even taller. “I’ve already called Family Children Services, and they’re coming right now to march your fast ass up out of here tonight.”_

_“Don’t bother.” Harry’s head swiveled back toward me as he said, “I’m leaving.”_

_I watched my brother as he stomped back over to his duffel bag and collected his things. There was no mistaking the anger, betrayal, and humiliation etched into his face as he tried to cram everything he owned into the tattered bag. I wanted to explain my decision better, but Tracee stood guard, watching my brother like a hawk. But what could I really say to make my brother understand?_

_Harry stormed out of the bedroom and then out of the house and never returned. Eventually, word got back to me that my brother was dancing over at the Pink Monkey. Some time after that, he had launched to the head of the food chain as Python’s latest boyfriend. Our paths crossed every now and again, but things were never the same between us and I doubted they ever would be…._

I shove an old picture of me and my brother back into the top drawer of my vanity and try to wipe the memories of that old fight out of my head, but I have a sinking feeling that that blowup will be nothing compared to what will happen when news of me and Liam reach Shotgun Row.

I reach for my hairbrush the same time my cell phone starts buzzing against the vanity’s glass top. On the ID screen, the words My Boo causes my lips to curl upward and my heart to start skipping around in my chest.

“You know our shit is all on Front Street now, right?” I spit angrily.

“Damn, baby. Hello to you, too.” Liam chuckles into the phone.

I roll my eyes and struggle to remain mad. “That shit you pulled wasn’t cool, boo.”

“Hey, it ain’t my fault that your ass is so fine I can’t keep my hands off of you.”

I cluck my tongue but can’t keep the grin off my face. “See. You can’t even be serious.”

“Sure I can. In fact, the main reason I’m calling is so I can apologize.”

For a brief moment, I pull the phone away from my ear so I can make sure that I am talking to who I think I am. When I put the phone back to my ear, Liam is laughing.

“That’s right, baby. I said it. A brother can admit when he’s wrong.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything.” I stand up from the vanity table and start walking around the room.

“So, are you going to accept my apology or just leave a nigga hanging?”

“Of course I accept it.” I huff out a breath. “But it doesn’t stop the fact that the damage is already done.”

“Then maybe we should hook up and put our heads together on how we going to handle this.”

I draw in another breath and shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Look, baby, I just don’t think it’s a hot idea to risk being seen together again.”

He chuckles. “C’mon. Now, I ain’t said nothing about us going all public. Besides, we’ve been able to keep our shit tight for six months, haven’t we?”

“Yeah, until you fucked up,” I snap, a little harder than I intended.

A strained silence stretches over the phone.

I suspect that my secret boo is struggling not to curse me the fuck out. I know him well enough to know that he doesn’t like it when people mouth off at him, and there have been more than a few times when he had to tell me to check my slick mouth when talking to him. He never wilds out or anything; he just has this cool way about handling me without me feeling handled.

“Are you finished now?” he asks. His deep baritone is like warm honey in my ear. “Have you got all of that shit out of your system?”

Contrite, I shrug my shoulders with my bottom lip poked out.

“Good. Now come over here to the window and let me in.”

I whip my head around and am stunned shitless at seeing Liam’s beautiful smile beaming back at me. “What the fuck are you doing out there?” I gasp into the phone.

“What does it look like?” He laughs. “I’m out here risking my neck tryna see your ass.” He taps my window. “Now get over here before your pops catches me out here and starts blasting at a nigga.”

I blink out of my stupor, toss my phone down on the bed, and then race over to the window. “I don’t fuckin’ believe you.” I turn the silver lock and open the window. “Damn, Liam. What the fuck were you thinking?” I ask as he climbs inside. Once he’s in, I glance back out. “How the fuck did you get up here?”

Still laughing, Liam wraps his strong arms around my waist and then nuzzles a kiss along the column of my neck. “Now what difference does that make? I’m here now.” His soft lips move to just behind my ear, causing every inch of my manhood to tingle and throb. “All you need to know is that I miss your fine ass.” His large hands dip down in between my legs, where he massages my dick through the seam of my jeans. “Did you miss me, too, baby?”

Since I’m moaning, there’s no point in saying anything other than the truth. “You know I did.” I still have sense enough to reach up and jerk my bedroom curtains closed before we give everyone on my street a good peep show.

“If you missed me so much, how come you ain’t actin’ like it?” His teeth lightly skimmed my lower earlobe. “How come you ain’t ripping out these clothes, Pa?” His hands move back up but make a beeline toward the top button of my jeans.

I draw in a shaky breath and then slap the top of his hand as I pull away.

“Damn, lil pa. What’s up?”

“Nigga, you know what’s up.” I smack him on the chest. “This shit is serious. What are we going to do?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “We ain’t gotta do shit…just mind our p’s and q’s. The shit will blow over.”

“Please say that you’re fucking joking.” I blink at him.

“What?” He tries to pull me back into his arms.

“Nigga, this ain’t Atlanta where we play paper gangstas. This is the real shit here in Memphis. Niggas pop out they momma’s pussies wearing colors. Don’t tell me I’m telling you shit you don’t already know.”

“Zee,” Liam insists, tugging on my white cotton T and smiling directly at my creamy milk-chocolate breasts. “Niggas talk. That’s what the fuck they do. We can’t control that shit.”

“Puh-lease.” I push him and his octopus arms away from me. “Niggas also shoot—or did you forget that shit?”

“Tsk.” Liam rolls his pretty-ass eyes and hits me with his large dimples. “You’re taking this shit too serious, Zee. Ain’t nobody sweating what the fuck we’re doing. Neither one of us are in the game. We can do what the fuck we want.” He eases back on me and sucks on my bottom lip. “I done told my brother that shit and you have told your brother. If anybody steps to us sideways, then we’ll handle that shit. End of story.” His hands return to my jeans and snap them open before I can stop him again. “Your problem is that you worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough,” I say, mushing him in the head.

He tugs on my lip again and then dips his tongue inside my warm mouth until I start moaning again and pressing my chest against his chest. His dick quickens.

What the fuck? I can’t even stay mad at this nigga. I turn my face until my lip pops away from his gentle sucking. “C’mon. You know that shit ain’t true. It’s just a matter of time before Harry starts blowing my phone up. Hell, if it wasn’t for some big fuckin’ party they’re throwing tonight, he would be doing the shit right now.”

“Fuck! Will you stop worrying about your whack-ass brother and start concentrating on your man?”

My eyes bug, but before I can jump on my high horse, Liam tosses up his hands. “All right, all right. I was out of line,” he says, forcing a smile back onto his face. “I’m sorry.” He kisses me tenderly. “Forgive me?” Another kiss.

However, I’m hip to his game. “You ain’t foolin’ nobody. You just want to get your dick sucked.”

Liam’s lips broaden. “Nah, nah.” He tugs me toward the bed. “I don’t just want some blowjob. I want the best blowjob.” With just two fingers, he gives me a little push and watches as I fall backward onto the bed. “You know you got the best, right baby?”

I laugh as he jumps down on top of me and removes my cotton T-shirt in one swift move. I start laughing at his foolishness again.

“Zaynie?” Tracee’s voice floats from the hallway.

I clamp my mouth shut and we watch in horror as the doorknob twists and rattles in vain.

I expel a relieved breath. At least I’d locked the door. Thank God.

“Zaynie, are you in there?” Knock. Knock.

Scrambling off the bed, Liam loses his balance and falls over the side, hitting the floor with a loud “Ooof!”

“Zaynie, honey? Are you okay?”

“Umm, yes, ma’am.”

“What was that noise?” The doorknob rattles again.

“Uh…uh, I just tripped.” I reach down and pull up the bottom of my comforter before whispering, “Hide.”

Liam frowns as he peeps under the bed. “Yo, I don’t know what you got under there.”

“Why is the door locked?” Tracee asks, rattling the door again.

“Will you stop playing and get under there?” I whap him on the back of the head and then help cram him under the bed with my dust bunnies.

“Zayn?”

“I’m coming.” I jump up and grab my T-shirt from the other side of the bed. Clutching it against my chest, I jerk open the door. “Hey!”

Tracee jumps back and then runs her gaze over me. “What are you doing?” she asks suspiciously.

“N-nothing. I was just getting ready for bed.”

“What was that noise?” Tracee glances over my head and peeks into the room. “I thought I heard you laughing with someone.”

“I, um, was on my cell phone talking to Eleanor,” I say, thinking quickly. “We were just laughing about something that happened today at school.”

“Oh.” Tracee’s gaze returns to my open and honest-looking face. “Well, try to keep it down in here. Reggie has a migraine.”

“Yes, ma’am. ’Nite.”

**Pop! Pop! Pop!**

Tracee and I jump, but then share an awkward smile. The sporadic gunfire usually starts around nine o’clock and is like a soundtrack to the gang violence that’s creeping toward midtown.

“Well, you better get to bed,” Tracee says after taking a breath. “Good night.” Tracee smiles but casts a final look back into the room before I shut the door in her face—and lock it.

**Pop! Pop! Pop!**

“Yo, Pa. Your moms be bugging,” Liam says, crawling out from under the bed with a goofy grin.

“Keep it down,” I say, tossing my T-shirt and hitting him on the head with it. “Trust me, you don’t want Reggie to find you in here.”

Liam jumps to his feet and quickly draws me back into his arms. “I’ll be quiet if you’ll be quiet.”

Once upon a time, I vowed that I would wait until I was married before I had sex, but that shit flew out the window when I met Liam. Hell, I didn’t even make his ass wait. On our first date, he flashed those diamond-sized dimples one too many times, and the next thing I knew, I was screaming for Jesus and my black boxers were hanging from his car rearview mirror. I don’t have anyone to compare him to, but as far as I’m concerned, our bodies were made for each other.

We click. We flow. We are soul mates. I know this as well as I know that I need air to breathe. Liam completes me—and this small life I’ve managed to carve out with the Douglases. Now I just need to figure out some way to hold it all together, at least until I can roll the hell up out of Memphis.

**Pop! Pop! Pop!**

Liam enters me with one smooth stroke and stares lovingly into my eyes while I try to control the volume on my moans. He doesn’t make it easy for me either. He hooks my legs over his shoulders and tears up my G-spot, my T-Spot, and my Z-spot.

“Oh… Liam…”

**Pop! Pop! Pop!**

“Shhh. Zee…baby,” he hisses, trying to handle how hard I’m throwing my ass back at him. We go at it until our bodies are slick with sweat and words of love are whispered back and forth.

**Pop! Pop! Pop!**

I roam my hands around my man’s waist and then lower to grip his tight ass. The feel of his muscles flexing and relaxing and the intensity of his caramel-colored eyes keep my dick hard as a rock. Outside my door, I swear I can hear my foster parents climbing the stairs and heading to their bedroom for the night.

**Pop! Pop! Pop!**

“Oh…Oh…”

“Good night, Zaynie,” Reggie and Tracee call from outside my bedroom.

“Oh!” **Pop!** “Oh!” **Pop!** “Oh!” **Pop!**

In order to keep me quiet, Liam smothers my mouth with kisses while he jerks me off and at the right moment swallows my orgasmic cry as I cum while my foster parents close the door to their bedroom.

I drift down from my cloud and start giggling.

“You think that shit is funny?” Liam asks, laughing. “Earlier, you were all scared they might come in here and put a cap in my ass. Now that you got your nut, it’s fuck me, is that it?”

I laugh. That’s something I love doing with Liam as much as having sex. He’s funny and goofy and then can flip the script and can be serious and no-nonsense.

“Ah, I see how you do a nigga with your selfish ass.” He tickles my sides, but when I start wiggling around, his dick gets harder inside me.

I smile at the feel of his dick thickening and throbbing. “Oooh. What’s that?” I ask, rolling my hips and watching my man’s face twist with pleasure. “You like that, baby?”

His mouth sags open. “Damn, baby. Hold up.” He struggles to catch his breath.

“Nah, nigga.” I pick up the speed. “You were talking all that shit. The truth is you can’t handle this sweet hole, can you?”

He tries to laugh it off, but then I hit a particular sweet spot and instead he starts sounding like a man who just caught the Holy Ghost.

“Uh-huh. I didn’t think so.” I roll him over and take the top position. “You like how I work this dick, baby?” My hips whine, bounce and then roll some more.

“I fuckin’ love it.” Liam pulls my body close so he can pop an erect nipple into his warm mouth. “I fuckin’ love you, baby,” he rasps.

I stop. “What?”

“I don’t stutter and your ears don’t flap.” Liam smiles and rolls me back over. “I said I love you and I mean that shit.” His hips start moving again. This time his strokes are so deep I think his dick is banging against my heart.

“I love you, too,” I confess. My heart pounds in double time.

Our eyes lock.

“Then that’s all the fuck that matters.” Liam cups my face in his hands while he continues his deep stroking. “Promise me that you’ll always remember that, baby.”

“I…I promise.”

**Pop! Pop! Pop!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll try to update as soon as i can also i'm posting my new fic queer thugs very soon...............stay tuned xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


	8. Maura (Momma Peaches)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You ain’t got to worry about a damn thing. There’s plenty of this good dick to go around.” He snatched my legs open and rubbed the head of his bloody dick over my clit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: non-con (sort of??) in thsi chapterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr  
> w a very special guest.....sophia (umbrella lips) smith

Every time I open my eyes in the morning, I thank the good Lord for blessing me to see another day. As far as I’m concerned, there are a lot of muthafuckas who don’t make it this far in life. For whatever reason, the man upstairs sees it fit for my old ass to still be roaming around in these streets just like he sees it fit to deliver the fine buck snoring next to me to really give me the proper homecoming I needed.

Now that the cobwebs have been knocked off my pussy and the sun is shining on my new chocolate boy toy, I’m in the mood for some flapjacks. I smile and peel back the white cotton sheets on my big ole cherry poster bed and swing my legs over the side—well, my one good leg and my one half a leg. I reach down and rub the bottom nub of my left leg and then have to remind myself that the ache I feel isn’t real and that I’m still suffering from what the doctors called phantom limb—the sensation that a missing limb is still attached—but it never really works.

_I had lost the leg in ’73, fucking around with Leroy, a small-time hustler who thought his ass was Priest from Super Fly. Hell, everybody blew his head up about that shit, just because he was lightskinned and could rock out a hot-comb press better than most. I don’t know why I was attracted to bad boys. I just was. Their swagger, their danger, their fuck-the-world attitude would get me and keep me wet better than any nigga working a nine-to-five with full benefits._

_It was the same summer my baby sister, Sophia, was sent up to Nana Maybelle’s place since our momma kept spitting out babies every nine months like clockwork. When Sophia showed up, the whole Manny affair was six years in my rearview mirror, and I was trying to trick niggas before they could trick me. What love had to do with shit was my anthem long before Tina Turner got some sense knocked into her screaming ass._

_Momma Maybelle was still in the game but was starting to show less heart about staying in it. Niggas were starting to get too wild, weren’t respecting long-held codes of honor on the street, and snitching became a new pastime down at the precinct. Still, Nana played the game smart and kept those Irish muthafuckas off her doorstep by contributing to the right people’s retirement funds._

_In ’73, I slipped up one more ’gin by catching feelings with Leroy’s pretty ass. And it had a lot to do with his ass rocking double digits in the dick department and introducing me to white people’s favorite drug of choice: cocaine._

_For a while, I just let him have that. After years of fighting that heroin habit Manny had left me with, the last thing I wanted was to get hooked on some new shit. But I had to admit, Leroy’s ass was a lot of fun whenever he was on that shit. He played more, laughed harder, and just downright tore my pussy up in the bedroom like his tight ass had batteries in it. Back in those days, drugs had a certain hierarchy. Any ole nigga could get their hands on some weed and heroin, but cocaine meant your ass had some dough._

_It first started at a red light in the basement party over at my best friend Josie’s crib. Everybody and anybody was bumping and grooving in that muthafucka that night. The women were rocking big-ass afros and equally big hoop earrings and ridiculous high-platform shoes while every man in there wore their baddest pimp gear, Leroy included._

_“I don’t understand why it got to go up in my nose?” I had naïvely said after watching people do lines or just scoop the shit up with their own private stock with tiny gold spoons that they wore around their necks._

_“Why ask why?” Leroy snickered as he chopped up his shit with a razor and made two distinct lines. “All that matters is that the shit works.” He then rolled a twenty-dollar bill and snorted a good six-inch line into each nostril. When his head sprung up, his golden eyes looked as if they were suddenly made of glass. The smile that came over his face was both sexy and contagious._

_“Hey, girl.” Josie slapped me on the back and cheesed in my face. “Glad to see you made it out.” Josie was decked the fuck out in a bright red Jersey dress with a halter top that gave every nigga in there a good view of her full D cups. “At least there are two hot-looking bitches up in this piece.” She laughed._

_“You ain’t lyin’,” Leroy said, his lustful gaze raking Josie up and down._

_I popped him on the back of his head. “No, you ain’t, nigga.”_

_“What?” He cheesed. “I was just fuckin’ with you. I wanted to see what your ass was going to do.” He squeezed my leg playfully and gave me the I-want-to-fuck look._

_“Uh-huh.” I couldn’t hate on my girl because she looked just like Diahann Carroll from that TV show Julia. She had her pick of niggas despite her ass being married to one who had a real j-o-b down at the post office._

_“Hey, Leroy. How about giving me a whiff of that shit? I can hook you up later,” Josie said._

_Leroy laughed in her face. “Bitch, please. This ain’t Give Me, Tennessee.”_

_“Humph!” She rolled her eyes and twitched her legs. “Peaches, can you talk to your man? This is supposed to be a party and shit, and his ass is being stingy.”_

_“Go on, girl. I ain’t in that shit. That’s between y’all.”_

_“All right, then. You want me to break him off some pussy payments?” She raised her pencil-thin brows as if to say that she was serious._

_“Get cut if you want to, bitch,” I sassed._

_“All right. All right.” Josie reached in underneath her left breast and pulled out the small roll of bills she had taped under there. “Take the last of my allowance money, muthafucka.”_

_Leroy smiled and handed over a few packets of white powder. “Nice doing business with you.”_

_“Whatever, muthafucka.” Josie rolled her eyes. “I’ll catch you later, Peaches.”_

_“All right, girl.” My gaze skimmed back around the dancing crowd. No doubt that every one of those muthafuckas was either drunk or high as hell, but so far there wasn’t any shit poppin’ off._

_Leroy’s nose vacuumed up another line._

_“That shit that good?”_

_“Fuck yeah.” He smirked. “You wanna try it?”_

_Maybe it was the Colt 45 or maybe it was just that good-ass weed that was floating around that had my curiosity finally get the best of me. “O-okay,” I said, pinching my nose as if to get ready. “I’ll try it this one time.”_

_Leroy lit up. “Trust me, baby. Once you get a taste of this shit, you’ll be thanking me for the rest of your muthafuckin’ life. I guarantee it’ll have your ass flying to the moon.” He laughed, rocking his hips to Curtis Mayfield’s fly-ass tracks and bumping into a few annoyed party guests._

_“Nigga, watch where you’re going,” an O. J. Simpson look-alike muthafucka snapped._

_Leroy tossed up his hands. “Peace, love, and soul, my nigga.” He chuckled. “Now, baby girl, you want to hit this shit or not?”_

_“Stop tryna sell me, Leroy. I said I’ll try it.” I laughed, mushing him in the head. “Now show me what I need to do.”_

_“Sho’nuff, girl. Sho’nuff.” He smacked his hands together and ordered people to move out of his way before copping a squat back down next to the coffee table. “Now, we’re just going to give you enough to get you started.” He sprinkled the white powder onto the glass surface and quickly produced two beautiful white lines of coke._

_My heart raced. In the back of my mind, I could hear my nana’s stern warning, but that shit was drowned out with the crowd and Leroy’s singing._

_“I’m your momma. I’m your daddy. I’m that nigga in the alley.” He handed over the dirty twenty-dollar bill while bobbing his head. “I’m your pusher man.”_

_I took the bill, leaned down, and then tried snorting the first line just like I’d seen him do, but the first whiff had my nose on fire._

_“Keep going, keep going,” Leroy coached._

_Like a fool, I listened to him and completed snorting up both lines. When I lifted my head, I couldn’t help but wave my hand in front of my nose. But then a second later …shit, things just started melting away. Stress. Pain. Heartbreak. Just about every fucking thing. All that was left were these wonderful sensations swirling inside my brain and in my body._

_“Got to get mellow now. Gotta be mellow, y’all,” Leroy crooned, smiling in my face. “You feeling that shit, baby?”_

_I could only manage a goofy grin._

_“Aww, shit. What did I tell you?” He stood and pulled me to my feet just as “Little Child Runnin’ Wild” started grooving from the Tannoy fifteen-inch gold speakers._

_Chest to chest and pelvis to pelvis, Leroy and I grooved and grinded against each other like we were the only two people in the room. “You know what I like after having some really good nose candy?” Leroy asked me, spreading his large hands over my thick booty._

_“I think I might have an idea,” I said, knowing that my panties were already wet as hell._

_Five minutes later, we were fucking on top of a giant pile of fake fur and leather in the coat room. No. It was better than fucking. That coke had awakened sensations in my pussy that I had never felt before, to the point that each stroke was like having a mini orgasm._

_An hour later, we took our private party back to my bedroom at Nana’s house. As luck would have it, Nana was out her damn self doing her own thing, leaving twelve-year-old Sophia asleep up in her room. I did a couple more lines, and sometime during the night, I heard my bedroom door creak open. Fearing that it was Nana returning home, I swiveled my head to investigate._

_“Sophia, what the fuck are you doing in here?” I barked._

_My twelve-year-old sister’s eyes bugged—most likely from seeing Leroy’s yellow, sweaty ass still drilling its way to China between my legs._

_“Get the fuck out of here,” I snapped. “Go back to bed.” I dropped my head back down and moaned out my pleasure while my liquid candy-coated Leroy’s dick._

_Sophia didn’t move._

_Through the mesh of my lowered eyelashes, I caught her still standing at the door. “I said get the fuck out of here!”_

_Leroy chuckled. “Let the girl be. Maybe she’s learning a thing or two.” He wrapped a muscled arm around me and quickly flipped me onto my back. “You see how much your sister like this good dick I’m throwing at her?” he asked Sophia._

_“Leroy, stop playing…. Oh…shit. That’s my spot, baby.”_

_“Hell, yeah. Big Daddy knows how you like it.” He opened up my ass cheeks and showed all my business to my little sister. “Shit is good, ain’t it, baby?”_

_Again, I caught sight of my sister. “A-Sophia …oh…shit. Damn it. Don’t make me tell you again. NOW GO!”_

_Sophia finally slammed the door._

_Leroy laughed. “Ah, baby. She’s got to get her education somehow. Might as well be at home.”_

_I meant to tell him that shit wasn’t funny, but then his hips picked up speed and he pounded my pussy something lovely. I lost count of how many orgasms I had and how many lines of coke I did in just one night. Later, I opened my eyes to find my bed empty. Fuck, I didn’t really mind, given how delicious my body felt. The only reason I got up was because I had to piss like a muthafucka._

_I stumbled out of bed naked and crept out of my room to the bathroom down the hall. It wasn’t until I was on the toilet with my face cradled in my hands that a sound caught my ear and caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand at attention. I stopped my piss in midstream and strained my ears, trying to hear it again._

_I did._

_“Sophia,” I whispered, popping up off the toilet and racing as best I could to my little sister’s room. When I burst through the door, it was my turn for my eyes to bug out and my stomach to twist into painful knots._

_Sophia turned her tear-soaked face toward me, but she couldn’t say anything because Leroy’s big gorilla hand was clamped over her mouth._

_“Peaches, you come in here to join us?” Leroy asked, still stroking between my sister’s legs._

_“Muthafucka, get the fuck off my sister!” I made a running leap toward the bed, landed on his back, and pounded away at his head. “You sick muthafucka. She’s just a kid!”_

_“Wh-what the fuck! Get off me.” With one powerful swing back, Leroy sent me careening toward the wall. I hit headfirst and then barely registered the rest of my body smashing a close second and then dropping down on top of the wooden nightstand below. Amazingly, I didn’t stay down for long. I bounced up, grabbed an American eagle brass lamp that had fallen to the floor, and swung at Leroy’s head as if I were Reggie Jackson._

_When the brass connected with his skull, there was a loud, sickening crack! Leroy was lifted off a whimpering Sophia, who jumped off the bed with bloodstained thighs._

_“I’m going to fuckin’ kill you!” I leaped back onto the bed, my fists flying._

_Leroy was feeling no pain. The muthafucka turned on me so hard and vicious that I could hardly comprehend what was happening other than he’d grabbed me by the throat and was whaling on me like I owed his ass money._

_“Have you lost your muthafuckin’ mind, bitch?” His fist crashed against my jaw like I was a grown-ass man. “Do I look like some punk muthafucka to you? Huh?” He switched up and hit me with a right hook._

_I reached up and dragged my nails down Leroy’s mug shot. I could feel his skin and blood scraping off._

_He howled out in pain but retaliated with a one-two punch._

_I tried to scream, but my mouth was quickly filling up with blood. Time and space became a blur. I even forgot that I was supposed to be trying to fight back. My mind was just spiraling into a black abyss._

_“You just wanted all this good dick to yourself, didn’t you, baby?” Leroy changed up, squeezing my titties like he hadn’t just beaten the shit out of me. “You ain’t got to worry about a damn thing. There’s plenty of this good dick to go around.” He snatched my legs open and rubbed the head of his bloody dick over my clit._

**_Pop! Pop!_ **

_“What the fuck?” Leroy roared._

**_Pop! Pop!_ **

_I felt Leroy jerk._

**_Pop! Pop!_ **

_My eyes flew open when it felt like my left leg had been slammed by two hot pokers._

_Leroy slumped over on the bed. His big golden eyes were still glossy but lifeless. I struggled to pull myself up. At the doorway, Sophia stood with tears streaming down her face, blood pooling on the floor between her legs, and Nana Maybelle’s gun smoking in her hand._

I blink out of the old memory, sigh, and glance down at my prosthetic leg on the floor—complete with the electric tag that the po-po strapped on yesterday. If I had a nickel for every dumb muthafucka I’ve come across, I would be one rich bitch, that’s for damn sure. I strap on my leg and climb out of bed.

Arzell stretches out a muscled arm, pats the empty space beside him, and then lifts his head from the pillows. “Where you goin’, Ma?”

A big smile blooms across my face. “I’m fixing to knock the funk off this body, and then I’m going to hook my boo up with some good ole homemade flapjacks. Would you like that?”

“Fuck yeah.” Arzell rolls over onto his back with a big Joker smile. “That’s what I like about you older women. You know how to take care of your man.” He stretches his hand down and wraps it around his early morning hard-on. After a couple of pumps, a few drops of precum ooze from the tip.

“Looks like Momma needs to fix you up first,” I say, edging back over to the bed.

“You know it.” He spreads his legs wide.

I just love these young boys. Their dicks are always just a little harder than they heads. “In that case, come to Momma.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if you have liked it by leaving kudos and PLEASe comment because i <3 you  
> ill try to update soon but im really -________- with school sry


	9. Yolanda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week after Niall's death, Yolanda and her friend Perrie go out.

A week after Niall had been shot down in the heart of Gangster Disciple territory, an unofficial war was declared against the Vice Lords. Hell, it isn’t safe for any nigga to be out on the streets: young, old, male, or fucking female. It really doesn’t matter because the wildin’ out members who aren’t waiting for no verification on who sent them niggas blazing down Shotgun Row are just straight blasting everything in sight. Louis has the power to reel these niggas in, but he doesn’t seem to be all that interested in doing so. He is content to hold the whole city hostage until somebody starts talking—mainly Fat Ace.

For the time being, Fat Ace is MIA. No matter how many ears and foot soldiers Louis has patrolling the streets, no one has seen this muthafucka nowhere. How the fuck they can’t find a three-hundred-plus-pound muthafucka is beyond everyone’s comprehension.

True to his word, the minute the Commercial Appeal printed the names of the shooters in the paper, Louis sent a team of GD assassins to roll up on those niggas’ families and wipe out what was left of their family trees. The rash of gang violence dominated the nightly news, and Memphis PD washed the streets with blue lights each and every night.

I keep my head down and my mind on my fucking job. For the time being, that’s still muling shit into Memphis’s fine prison system. At this point, the job is a breeze. The top dogs know just who can be bought with pussy and who needs to be cut in on the profits. The money flowing out of the joint is the best money to be made, since our people on the inside make three times what the shit is worth on the street.

My cut is decent, but even decent money isn’t cutting it no more when I keep dating niggas who are in my pockets more than I am. Every time I turn around, it’s “Can I borrow twenty dollars for this?” or “Can you run to the store and get me that?” That’s the problem with just dealing with lowly foot soldiers; ten times out of ten they spend their money faster than they make it.

I know that I need to get my act together so I can get my kids back. Family Children Services took all three of them because my mother kept reporting that I wasn’t taking good care of them, which is bullshit. I fed my damn kids. They just looked poor because that’s how they damn looked. Probably took after they damn daddies, even though I’m not sure who they all are anyway.

The Queen Gs are like a substitute family within the family, and just like most families, it tends to be dysfunctional as a muthafucka. Sometimes there’s just as much fighting going on inside the set as there is fighting such bitches as the Flowers or the Crippettes. Brothers of the struggle tend to cast their nets in their own pool or bring in new bitches who don’t know shit about gang life. Either way, there’s a lot of man stealing or sharing, and I’m just as guilty as anyone.

If I’m going to change my situation, I need a higher-ranking nigga within the Gangster Disciples. Someone who slings big money. Since my dreams and hopes were derailed when that muthaphucka Niall died, I need to cast my net again.

“I’m thinking about gettin’ a job down at the Pink Monkey,” I blurt out to my friend Perrie (even though everyone calls her Baby Thug) while we cop a few cases of beer at the J & W Liquor Store.

Perrie, pretty much my only true friend in the set, busts out laughing at my ass before turning away and strutting up to the counter.

“What’s so goddamn funny?”

“You,” she says, setting her shit down. “You may have the body, but you sure as hell don’t have the rhythm.”

I move up behind her and set two more cases down. “What the fuck you know? I can dance.”

Baby jams her hand into her pocket and pulls out a fat roll of money. “Girl, I ain’t talking about just rocking your hips in time to the music. Your ass got to be able to work it down at the Pink Monkey. Those girls don’t be playing when they hustlin’ for that paper—bending and twisting their bodies like pretzels.” She shakes her head. “You are going to have to really up your game.”

The old black man behind the counter squints his brown and jaundiced eyes at us.

“So?” I say. “I can do that shit, too.”

“Bitch, please. Half the time you be tripping over air.” Baby glances up at the old dude behind the register. “What the fuck? Your arthritis acting up, nigga? How much?”

The man lifts a trembling, withered finger and shakes it at her. “Ain’t you the girl who came in here and robbed me last week?”

Here we go. I roll my eyes.

“Ain’t nobody robbed you, old man,” Baby snaps, her face twisting like she’s offended. “Now how much the fuck do I owe you?”

“Yeah. You were the one,” he says, bobbing his head.

Quick as lightning, Baby’s gat is in her hand, and a red light glows in the center of the man’s forehead. “For the last time, old man, I said nobody fuckin’ robbed your ass.”

Grandpa’s hands shoot up in the air as his nervous gaze shifts toward me. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t rob you either.”

“All right. All right. My mistake.” He licks his lips.

There is a small tinkling sound and then a foul odor drifts toward us.

Baby sniffs. “Muthafucka, did you just piss on yourself?”

“And shit,” I add.

The old man swallowed so hard we can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

Baby lowers the gun. “Damn. You’re a nasty muthafucka.” She tosses a few bills on the counter and then grabs the cases of beer by their cardboard punch-out handles and marches out the door. Once outside, Baby glances over at me. “Damn, Yo. Why in the fuck didn’t you remind me we robbed this muthafucka last week?”

“Shit, girl. I can’t keep up with that fuckin’ shit.”

We quickly hop into Baby’s tricked-out royal blue ’68 Impala and burn rubber back toward Shotgun Row. Nobody dares tell Baby that she looks like a thirteen-year-old teenager behind the wheel, including my ass. I know my girl is sensitive about her size and wouldn’t hesitate putting a cap in someone’s ass if they mentioned it.

“Are you still going to braid my hair?” Baby asks when we pull up to the curb of my momma’s house.

“Shit, I guess so. I can go fill out an application down at the Pink Monkey afterward.”

Baby shuts off her engine and climbs out from behind the wheel. In the distance, a series of gunshots catches our attention, but no one on the street trips. It’s probably just business as usual. “You’re really gone take your no-rhythm ass down there?”

“Fuck you, Perrie.”

“You going to keep saying that shit to me and I’m going to take you up on it.”

I may be a little slow from time to time, but I’m more than aware that Baby is interested in more than just friendship with me. It’s just too bad I don’t feel the same way about her, because Baby is really cool peoples. I know for a fact that she treats the girls she dates like fucking queens, spending time and her hard-earned paper on them. But it never really lasts long, because Baby says women are just as scandalous as the niggas I deal with—maybe more so. I think it’s debatable.

“Hey, y’all. Whatcha up to?”

Baby and I turn around to see Pit Bull, a large Queen G who is as husky as the two pit bulls she’s always walking up and down Shotgun Row.

“Nothing. Just hanging for a little while,” I answer.

Baby elbows me and hisses, “Why the fuck you always talking to that bitch?”

“What? I’m just being nice,” I whisper back.

Pit Bull jams a hand on her hip and rolls her eyes. Her dogs, Barksdale and Hoover, growl at us. “You two muthafuckas know I can hear y’all, right?”

“And?” Baby snaps.

“Whatever. You two homo bitches deserve each other.” Pit Bull tugs on her dogs’ leashes and continues her flat-footed stroll down toward her own crib.

“You just mad that nobody wants your funky ass,” Baby yells.

Pit Bull flips us the bird.

Baby turns toward me. “Why the fuck you always talking to that heifer? You know I can’t stand that bitch. She don’t do nothing but talk shit behind everybody’s back.”

I know that, but I still struggle with that childhood need to win people over no matter how many times my ass gets burned. “C’mon, girl. Get in here so I can do your head.” I turn and swish my ass up my momma’s porch steps.

The moment we enter the front door, our eyes land on Betty sitting in her La-Z-Boy and eyeballing Wheel of Fortune. As usual, the house smells like a combo of Vicks VapoRub and Bengay.

“Hey, Ms. Turner,” Baby greets with a lazy wave.

Betty exhales a long breath and just ignores her.

We keep it moving and unload the beer in the refrigerator before we take out two cold ones that were already chilling in there.

“We going to be in my room, Ma,” I say, not expecting or receiving an answer.

“I hate to talk about your momma and everything, but that shit ain’t normal.” Baby pops open her beer.

“Normal?” I laugh, grabbing my Blue Magic hair grease and fat-toothed comb. “What the fuck is normal on Shotgun Row? This dirty, cracked-out muthafucka ain’t exactly what they put on postcards, now, is it?”

“Yeah. You right. You right,” Baby concedes. “But that woman ain’t said shit to me in the seven years I’ve known her. Nothing. Nada. I think if I waltzed in here on fire, she couldn’t be bothered to piss on me to put the shit out.”

“Don’t worry. You ain’t the only one.”

Baby shakes her head, chugs down half her can of beer in one gulp, and then burps so loud that the neighbors probably heard her.

“Gross.”

“You know that shit turns you on.” Baby winks.

“Stop playing and get your ass over here.” I say, sitting down on the edge of the bed and spreading my legs.

Baby rushes over and drops down on the floor in front of me. “Can you hook it up in that crisscrossed style Allen Iverson had in that picture I showed you last week? Remember that?”

“Yeah, girl. Hold your head still.” I start in on one end of Baby’s cornrows. I actually like braiding people’s hair. It is a surprising talent that came naturally to me. All I have to do is see a style one time and I can duplicate it, no problem. A lot of the girls in the set who don’t really care for me often cheese in my face, get me to do all kinds of complicated styles, and then pay me little or nothing for it. Everybody except Baby. She always breaks me off what some of those girls who work in the salons be charging—and most times a little more.

“Now this is what the fuck you need to be doing to pull you some extra money,” Baby says. “You know you got mad skills.”

“Sheeiit!”

“What?” Baby asks, trying to glance over her shoulder.

I jerk her head back around. “Keep your damn head still.”

Baby snickers. “Whatever. You know I’m right. You don’t need to be sliding your ass up and down no damn pole like the rest of those trifling hoes, tryna catch a dollar. You need to see if Ms. Anna will rent you a chair at her salon.”

“Please. I hear those bitches at the Pink Monkey be dragging in six to eight hundred a night.”

Baby’s head jerks back again. “In Memphis? At the Pink Monkey? And you believe that shit?”

I frown.

“See, that’s the problem with you, Yo-Yo. You’re too trusting. You believe every muthafuckin’ thing these trifling bitches be spitting. Six to eight hundred a night. Shit, this ain’t Vegas. Those same hoes be running up and down the Row tryna sell they food stamps for damn near thirty cents on the dollar.”

I suppose Baby has a point.

“Niggas around here always tryna act like people in those stupid-ass hip-hop videos when in reality they got they rims on some rent-to-own bullshit, and they gold chains are steady turning they necks green while slinging on the street corners.”

“Don’t hold back—tell me how you really feel.” I turn Baby’s head again.

“I’m just keepin’ this shit real. You know how I do,” Perrie says, rocking her neck. “I hate this shit. I hate I ever joined up in this muthfuckin’ gangbang bullshit.”

“Girl, don’t let none of these niggas hear you mouthing off like that.”

Baby clucks her tongue. “Fuck them niggas. They can suck my dick.”

I mush her in the back of her head. “If you hate the shit so much, why did you get in? Or better yet, why don’t you get out?” I ask, since I can’t imagine anyone forcing Baby to do a damn thing she doesn’t want to, her size be damned.

“Shit. Everybody is cliqued the fuck up in this city. Disciples, muthafuckin’ Vice Lords, Crips, Bloods, and let’s not forget those grimy LMGs still floating around this sonabitch. A nigga always need somebody to have they back while they tryna make this paper. NahwhatImean?” Baby shakes her head. “Shit here in Memphis ain’t organized like it is up north or out west. Niggas be banging just ’cause they ain’t got shit else to do.”

I shake my head. “You looking at all this shit wrong. The Gangster Disciples is family. It ain’t perfect, but it’s better than the shit I grew up with in this muthafuckin’ house. I just need to lock down a chief, an enforcer, a governor—some damn nigga with some damn money, power, and respect so I can move the hell up out of here and I can get my damn kids back. And I’m going to make that shit happen. One way or another. Watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you liked it <3 let me know by posting a comment xoxoxoxo  
> next chapter tomorrow


	10. Gemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not Vice Lord but clearly you enjoy the luxury of their security. So who are you?”

“We have an eleven-ninety-nine off the three thousand block of Sharpe Avenue. Car thirty-four, are you still in the area?”

I reach toward the center of the patrol car console and snatch up the hand radio. “Car thirty-four, roger. We’re on our way.” I quickly stand up between the open car door and yell to O’Malley. “We gotta roll!”

O’Malley’s head snaps away from the suspected drunk driver, who’s having a devil of a time getting through the first six letters of the alphabet.

“We have an eleven-ninety-nine,” I answer the unspoken question, and then jump in behind the wheel.

“You’re one lucky motherfucker,” O’Malley tells the red-faced driver as he shoves his driver’s license back at him. “Go home and get your drunk ass off the street!” He jogs back to the car.

“Yes, sir, officer, sir.” The good ole boy’s glassy blue eyes light up as he gives a two-finger salute and stumbles back to his black F-450 pickup truck. “Y’all have a good night.”

O’Malley barely gets his ass into the passenger seat when I slam on the accelerator and rip a sharp right to head out to the Orange Mound district to answer the call of an officer in need of assistance. Given the general address, there’s no doubt that we’re racing toward danger. Orange Mound is well-known Vice Lord territory.

I handle my cruiser like an Indy 500 driver and make the ten-minute drive in under three. The second we’re out of the car, a series of shots are either fired at us or around us. It’s hard to tell. Weapons out, I hear O’Malley speak into his shoulder radio and report shots fired with possible gang activity.

I’m more puzzled as to why the fucking street is so goddamn dark—that is, until I hear glass crunch beneath the soles of my shoes. I glance down and then up at the light pole. “Fuck!”

Instantly alarmed, O’Malley barks, “What is it?”

“These muthafuckas shot out the damn streetlights,” I hiss.

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

I duck down and sweep my gun out in front of me.

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

The blue track light on top of our patrol car shatters, and Sharpe Avenue is once again bathed in darkness.

“What the fuck? Guess they don’t want our asses seeing shit,” O’Malley states the obvious.

“Shhh!” I strain my ears to try and pick up any little sound. I’m not about to get my ass shot up because he wants to crack jokes. Tugging in slow, steady, deep breaths, I master keeping my heartbeat under control, but the adrenaline rushing through my body is the best kind of high I’ve ever known. I’m scared but my body feeds off danger. To my right, I hear the shuffling of feet. “POLICE. STOP OR I’LL SHOOT!”

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

I have never moved so fast in my life, but I can hear the bullets as they slam into the concrete where I was standing just seconds ago. Together, my partner and I return fire in the direction of our shooter.

“Aww, shit,” someone shouts before a thud meets my ears.

O’Malley and I rush to approach the sound; our guns sweep in circles. We reach the perpetrator moaning and groaning on the sidewalk but remain mindful that there could be others.

“Shit, man. Y’all muthafuckas shot me,” the dude moans.

“That’s what the fuck you get when you shoot at cops, you dumb motherfucker.” O’Malley delivers a vicious kick to the man’s side and then moves his foot around his moaning body. “Where the fuck is it?”

“Where’s what, muthafucka?” the perpetrator challenges through gritted teeth. “I ain’t got shit. You need to be getting my ass to the doctor.”

“Humph! Yeah, we’ll get right on it, asshole.” O’Malley kicks him again. “As far as I’m concerned, your life can bleed out right here on this dirty-ass sidewalk. That’s what most you niggers do out here, anyway, ain’t it?”

I grind my molars and cut a sharp gaze toward O’Malley’s dark silhouette while he whales on the guy. His slick mouth is exactly the reason I want to put a cap in his ass my damn self. It’s like he doesn’t see or care that my ass is black too. “O’Malley, ease the fuck up, man.”

“Yeah, O’Malley,” the perpetrator groans. “Fuckin’ ease up, man.”

“Shut up. Now where the fuck is the gun?!”

“I don’t have a goddamn gun, you stupid fuck. I wasn’t the one shooting at your ass. I was tryna get out the goddamn way of you two nonaiming muthafuckas. Shit. Where in the hell do they teach you pigs how to shoot?”

At the very real possibility of him not being the shooter, my hackles jump back up and my grip tightens on my Glock. My partner grows quiet as well but removes his handcuffs from his hip. With one hand, he keeps his weapon and locks down the suspect with the other. Something shatters behind me, and I spin around shooting. I just barely make out a dark figure racing toward an old church.

“POLICE! STOP OR I’LL SHOOT!”

Our second perpetrator runs at top speed, and I take off after him.

“Johnson!” O’Malley shouts after me.

I don’t answer as I go full throttle, making good use of those many years of being a track star in high school and police academy. I close in and am just inches from reaching out and bringing him down, when suddenly both of us hit something that knocks our legs out from under us. Hitting the ground hard, I still manage to keep hold of my weapon, but the runner is able to scramble and bounce back up faster than me and is a ghost before I know it.

“Shit.” I look back down to see what I’d stumbled over, and I’m just mildly surprised to find that it’s a dead body.

To my great relief, more sirens fill the air, and seconds later a small army of lights wash the street in blue. Thirty minutes later, two ambulances arrive—one for our weaponless and wounded suspect and one for a fallen officer, Detective George Holmes, the cop we’d raced there to try and assist.

Detective Holmes’s body is pumped full of holes. I question what the fuck a plainclothes cop is doing in this section of town by himself. Judging by the expressions on some of my colleagues’ faces that very question is dancing inside their heads as well. I look around, trying to come up with a plausible scenario, but everything that races across my mind is shady as hell.

Detective Holmes had been hailed as the next supercop in the Commercial Appeal, someone the city hadn’t seen the likes of since my father’s heyday. But clearly his ass wasn’t bullet-proof.

“Everybody just wants to fuck the police in this motherfucker, right?” O’Malley roars, pained by losing one of our own. “Just fuck the police!” He starts marching toward the gurney on which our wounded suspect lies, waiting to be lifted into the back of the remaining ambulance.

I quickly jump into action and try to pull him back. “O’Malley, don’t do it. Walk the shit off,” I urge. This is the part I hate, always trying to rein in a partner who acts an ass before he thinks shit through. His specialty is blurring the lines of questioning a suspect and beating the holy shit out of them.

“Nah. Fuck that,” O’Malley roars. “I’m sick of these ignorant niggers terrorizing these damn streets. This damn city is like a fuckin’ war zone with these damn ghetto hamsters running around, thinking life is a damn video game.” He wrenches out of my grasp and keeps marching toward the gurney, which is surrounded by paramedics.

“All right, who is your friend out there?” he barks at our suspect.

I reach my partner’s side, hoping some more shit isn’t about to pop off, especially now that curious residents are starting to mill outside their houses, people who can be possible witnesses to what will undoubtedly be described as police brutality before the eleven o’clock news.

“Hey, hey. Get away from me, man. I already told you that I wasn’t the one shooting at y’all.”

“If it wasn’t you, then it was one of your fuckin’ homeys, right? Your partnas, your family?”

“Man, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Oh? Is that right?” O’Malley challenges.

“Yeah. That’s right, asshole.”

My hackles start to rise again. O’Malley is definitely about to do something stupid.

“So you’re just a fine upstanding citizen out for a stroll in one of the most dangerous Vice Lord territories? You think I’m stupid enough to believe that, you dumb fuck?”

The tall brother shifts his incredibly big, brown eyes toward me. “Is he for real?”

As expected, O’Malley’s temper snaps and he delivers a hard right hook to the boy’s wounded shoulder.

“Aaaargh!”

The paramedics jump in shock, the group of nosy and curious residents gasp and point, and the boys in blue quickly form a protective ring around the back of the ambulance.

“What the fuck?!” our suspect yells. “Y’all just going to stand by and let this muthafucka treat me like Rodney King and shit?” He cradles his bleeding shoulder.

“That’s right, because you and your Vice Lord pussies just killed a cop!”

“Man, I done told you that I ain’t have shit to do with all that.”

O’Malley socks him another blow.

“Aaaargh! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“Did you see that shit?” a curbside witness asks loudly.

People start shaking their heads, and the paramedics start looking jumpy.

“S-sir, I need to ask you to back away from the patient.” A paramedic attempts to push O’Malley back.

“Get the fuck away from me.” He smacks the man’s hand away. “I’m interrogating a suspect, and you’re interrupting official police business,” he yells. “Gangsta Homey is a fuckin’ cop killer.”

“I told you I ain’t killed no cop!” the suspect yells, his eyes blazing.

“O’Malley, you’re causing a scene,” I hiss. “We can do this another time,” I insist.

“If it wasn’t you, then it was one of your friends, and you both can go down as far as I’m concerned.”

Despite the pain, the boy manages to laugh in O’Malley’s face. “Whatever, man. You ain’t got shit on me and you fuckin’ know it. And don’t be false flagging me as some gangbanger ’cause I don’t rep no set, and you ain’t going to find nobody that’s going to say I do.”

I shake my head. The shit didn’t sound right. “You’re not Vice but you feel comfortable strolling through VL territory unstrapped?”

“That’s right. Ain’t nobody going to fuck with me down here—other than you two shooting-challenged muthafuckas.”

O’Malley cocks his fist back again. Our suspect flinches and the paramedics and I all move to shove O’Malley away from the boy.

“All right. All right. I’m cool,” O’Malley says, opening his fist as a sign of surrender.

Everyone eases back.

I look back at our suspect, who surprises me by flashing two large dimples. “You’re not Vice Lord but clearly you enjoy the luxury of their security. So who are you?”

The kid’s lips spread wider as his gaze shoots back over to O’Malley. “Just another nigga, I suppose.”

“Give me a name,” I say, annoyed. “Your government name.”

“Liam Payne,” he says.

I almost shit a brick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry it took me so long to update <3 ehy


	11. Zayn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn hears about Liam being shot and goes to the hospital with Eleanor.

“Wake your ass up, bitch! Liam’s been shot!” Eleanor shouts into the cell phone. “Nigga, all these people blazing up my phone saying that the po-po capped his ass over in Orange Mound.”

“Wh-what?” My eyes spring open as my heart leaps into the center of my throat. “Say that shit again.” I rip the sheets off my body and tumble out of bed.

Click. Click.

“Hold on. That’s my other line.”

“Wait! No! Eleanor?” There’s no use; she has already clicked over to the other line. “Shit.” I turn on my night-light and then rush over to my chest of drawers with my cell phone still pressed against my ear. With one hand, I start pulling shit out and not really giving a fuck if it matches or not. “C’mon, E. Hurry the fuck up,” I hiss, impatient for my girl to come back on the line.

“Z, you there?”

“Yeah, girl.” I stop with just one leg jammed into a fresh pair of jeans. “What the fuck is going on? Is Liam okay?”

Eleanor clucks my tongue. “Let me tell you, they saying that some serious shit was going down over off Sharpe. There’s a dead cop and everything.”

My legs nearly drop me on the spot. “But is he all right?”

“Everybody saying he’s still breathing, if that’s what you mean.”

Relieved, I close my eyes and whisper a prayer of thanks before I return my mind to some of the other shit my girl is saying. “They ain’t saying Liam killed a cop, are they? I know he wouldn’t do no shit like that.”

“Fuck, bitch. Everybody saying different shit. One chick said that he went fuckin’ Tony Montana on their asses, and I had someone else tell me that he just got caught being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I’m stressed again. “Where is he now?”

“The hospital, I guess. They said the ambulance came and got him.”

“Which one?”

“Shit. I don’t know.”

“Find out and then call me back. I’m going to finish getting dressed.”

Eleanor laughs. “And just how in the fuck are you going to get there? We ain’t got a car, and the buses have already stopped running for the night.”

I stop for a moment. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You just find out where he’s been taken and call me back.”

“All right, bae.” Eleanor clucks her tongue. “I’ll call you back in a few.”

I disconnect the call and rush to finish getting dressed. Seconds later, I shut off the lights again and then creep out of my bedroom. The hallway seems endless as I try to make my way down as quiet as possible. There’s no time to feel guilty about what I’m doing. My man needs me.

Once I reach the stairs, each board in the floor is squeaking loud enough to wake the dead. I hold my breath until I reach the bottom of the stairs. When it seems like the coast is still clear, I race over to the black bombé chest in the foyer and retrieve Reggie’s car keys. Less than a minute later, I’m rolling in his new Lincoln MKS out the driveway with the headlights off. It isn’t until I get down the road to the first stop sign that I feel safe enough to turn the muthafuckas on.

Impatient for word from Eleanor, I dig my cell phone out of my jean pocket and hit her back.

“Yo- I was just about to call you back,” Eleanor says after one ring.

“What did you find out?”

“The Med off Jefferson.”

“Shit.” I glance up to see what street I’m on. “Do you know how to get there?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m on my way to pick you up,” I say.

“Pick me…in what, bitch?”

“I’m driving Reggie’s car.”

“What?” Eleanor erupts in stunned laughter. “You jacked your foster parents’ ride? Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Nah. Nah. It’s cool. I just need to make sure that I’m back before Tracee wakes up at five.” A white car appears out of nowhere. I drop the phone and slam on my brakes. “Shit. Shit.” The back end of the car fishtails, and before I know it, I’m going sideways toward a curbside fire hydrant. My hands clench the steering wheel just before the back end of the car hits.

“No. No. No.” I quickly jump out of the car and rush around to inspect the damage. My heart sinks at the sight of the busted taillight, but I’ll have to think of a lie at another time. I have to get going. Once back in the car, I rummage around until I find my cell phone on the floorboard. “E? Give me ten minutes and be outside.” I end the call and drive the car off the curb and back onto the street. From then on, I keep my eyes wide and my foot a little lighter on the accelerator.

True to my word, I make it to E’s grandmother’s place, just a block from Shotgun Row, in ten minutes. I sigh in relief when I see Eleanor standing outside, because the last thing I want to do is stop or get out of the luxury sedan on this side of town and at this time of night.

Eleanor jumps into the car, laughing. “Damn, boy. What the hell happened to the taillight?”

“You don’t wanna fuckin’ know.”

“Shit. Are you sure you can drive this big muthafucka? I ain’t survived this damn neighborhood just so your no-licensed ass can kill me in a fuckin’ car wreck.”

“Don’t you start that backseat driving. Just tell me how to get to the damn hospital.”

“Whatever. Just go up to the light and hang a right.”

I take off down the street with my heart still racing and my palms sweating. “Did you hear any more news? What else are people saying?”

“Ah, A bunch of bullshit now,” Eleanor says, opening the glove compartment and checking shit out. “Niggas are now making shit sound like Liam went at the po-po with artillery of shit. Took out one cop and went at it with this one big, muthafucka who was still pounding on his ass even when the paramedics were tryna resuscitate him and load him in the ambulance.”

“What?” I rake a hand through my hair. “They saying he almost died?”

Eleanor clams up as if she’s suddenly afraid to tell me more.

“Well? Spit it out!” I pull my gaze from the road to look at my girl. The suspense is killing me. God help me. I don’t know what I’m going to do if anything happens to Liam. He means everything to me.

Eleanor stops nosing around in the glove compartment and turns in her seat to face me. “Look, I hate that I gotta be the one telling you all this, but the bottom line is I just don’t know what really happened and neither does any of them gossiping niggas. So just take a deep breath and calm down.” To get me started, she starts sucking in air and rolling her hands to encourage me to do the same thing.

I roll my eyes only to get punched in the shoulder. “Oww.”

“Take a deep breath,” Eleanor insists.

Scared of getting punched again, I do as I’m told. Then from the corner of my eye, I see a patrol car. “Turn around and put on your seat belt.”

Having her own inner cop scanner, Eleanor is already ahead of me and is locking the belt across her waist. “Be cool. Be cool. Be cool,” Eleanor recites under her breath as the car rolls to a stop right next to a Memphis patrol car at a light.

I lick my lips while my sweaty hands clench the steering wheel. I just hope the cops don’t look our way, because I don’t fit the description of someone who could possibly own this luxury sedan, and my learner’s permit requires that I drive with an adult. While the light is taking forever to change, I chance a look to my right. My heart stops short when my eyes crash with a female officer’s.

I’m going to jail. I’m going to jail. I’m going to jail.

I swallow the lump in my throat and resolve that if the blue track lights come on, I’m jamming my foot down on the accelerator and making a run for it. I’m not going anywhere until I see for myself that Liam is okay.

The traffic light turns green. The police car moves forward and hangs a left.

“Whooo, shit, Nigga,” Eleanor sighs. “That shit was close. I just knew our asses were about to be like those bitches Thelma and something.”

“Thelma and Louise,” I say, finally easing off the brake.

“Yeah, them,” Eleanor cosigns. “I even got my gat ready.”

I glance over in shock. “What the fuck? You got a gun? Since when did you start toting that shit?”

“Since the last time Qiana and those Flower bitches tried to roll up on me in the girl’s bathroom at school. Bitch got me confused if she thinks she’s going to catch my ass slippin’.”

Shaking my head, I clamp my mouth shut.

“What? You wanna lecture me now?”

“Just tell me which way to the hospital.”

“Take a right up here on Adams.” Eleanor glances back over at me. “I don’t think it’s right for you to judge me. Not everybody got it as good as you do. These muthafuckin’ streets out here ain’t no joke. A bitch gotta do what she fuckin’ gotta do.”

“I ain’t said nothing.”

“But you want to. I can tell.”

I spot the hospital up ahead and breathe a sigh of relief.

Eleanor shakes her head, but she squashes the argument since I’m not going to indulge her. We quickly park the car and race toward the emergency room entrance. The muthafucka is packed. Old, young, crying babies—everybody. What’s worse, it looks like they’ve been here for a long time.

“Aww, shit. I hope our asses ain’t going to be here all night,” Eleanor complains, looking around.

“Shut up and come on.” I weave my way up to the reception desk. “I’m looking for Liam Payne. I believe he was brought here. I’m his boyfriend.”

The woman behind the counter definitely has molasses up her ass and is clearly in no rush to get off the phone or address my concerns.

Eleanor hip bumps me out the way and starts banging her hand on the counter. “HELLO!” Bam! Bam! Bam! “Get the fuck off the phone and help my boy out. Damn.”

The receptionist levels a dirty look at Eleanor. “Keisha, let me call you back. I got a couple of hood rats in my face.”

“WHAT?” Eleanor is heated and reaches toward her pocket.

I panic and grab my girl’s wrist and give her a look to be cool. “Please forgive my friend. I’m just looking for Liam Payne. I was told that he was shot tonight.”

“Aren’t they all?” The woman turns toward her computer and finally searches for the information we need.

A few minutes later, we’re racing toward Liam’s room in the intensive care unit. But seeing a large group of niggas flagging Vice Lord colors outside his door, Eleanor slows down. “Z, I don’t know about this,” she hisses.

I’m not listening. My brain refuses to process that we’re actually running toward danger.

“Z!” Eleanor tries again, but at seeing me continuing on, she follows through to have my back. “I swear to God, if we live through this, I’m going to fuckin’ kill you myself,” she whispers when she catches back up with me.

“Just chill out.”

There are at least twenty people outside the door, and every one of them is now looking at us.

“Who the fuck are you two?” one burned-toast-looking muthafucka asks, twisting his face and mean mugging us.

“I-I’m Zayn. I came to see Liam.”

The young Vice Lord rakes his gaze over us. “Liam isn’t exactly up for visitors at this time.”

“Okay. Sorry to bother y’all.” Eleanor grabs my arm and attempts to pull me away.

I snatch my arm back and refuse to budge. “He’ll want to see me. I’m his boyfriend.”

The small group starts chuckling.

“I ain’t heard nothing about Liam having no boyfriend or even being homo at all. If you ask me, you two look like a couple of chickens he’s probably just fuckin’ around with.”

“How would you know? You look like the last time you seen pussy was when you were coming out of one,” Eleanor snaps back.

“Oh shit,” one nigga moans.

“Now get out of my way so I can see my man.” I hold my ground and stare the asshole down.

“Aww. That young nigga got himself a feisty bitch,” another nigga with thick dreads and a mouthful of gold laughs and cheeses.

“Who the fuck you calling a bitch?” Eleanor and I snap in unison.

“All right. All right. Simmer down.” A woman I hadn’t noticed until now steps forward. She’s dressed like the other niggas, but she doesn’t look like a dyke or nothing. She is actually very pretty, yet still looks like a bitch you don’t want to fuck with.

“You say you’re Liam’s man. Fine. We mean no disrespect. Go on in,” she says, stepping out of the way to let us through.

Eleanor looks like she can’t believe what we’d just done.

I’m already over it. I’m focused on only one thing, or rather one person. The moment I push through the door, Liam’s head snaps up from his cell phone and a look of surprise lights up his face. “Zee. I was just about to call you.”

Relieved, I fly into the room as my tears flow. I even ignore the man sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed. “I was soooo worried about you.” I try to wrap my arms around him. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“Easy on the shoulder, baby.” He chuckles.

“Oh.” I glance down and gently touch his bandages. “Boo, what happened?”

“Just another day in the hood, Pa. You know how it is.” Liam smiles tenderly while tears continue to skip down my face. “You really love a nigga, don’t you?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I do.” I sit down on the edge of the bed and cup his face in my hands. “I love you more than life itself, baby. Now and forever.” I lean in close and pour my heart and soul into a kiss that sends my mind reeling.

When at long last our deep kiss is reduced to small, nibbling pecks, Liam smiles again. “You know sometimes a nigga just needs to hear the words.”

Gently, I lean closer and whisper in his ear, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He laughs. “I love you, too, boo.”

From the other side of the bed, a man clears his throat.

I pull back, but then suck in a stunned breath when my gaze crashes into Fat Ace.


	12. Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Louis are at it again and then Louis gets an unexpected phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has smut + breathplay and noncon? if you squint like really hard so if you don't feel comfortable with that don't read it ok thanks

Louis’s forked tongue drums against the head of my dick like it’s playing the congas. Indescribable pleasure unfurls from it and radiates outward until I tremble and shake like I’m experiencing an internal earthquake. Nobody gives head like this nigga. Hands down that fucking tongue is a monster, dipping and sliding in my dick and ass until I’m fucking spelling his name backward. “S-I-U-O-L.”

Louis groans and then reaches down and spreads my ass cheeks wide. The man is a fiend when it came to ass, and he knows as long as he hooks me up right on sucking my dick, I’ll take him busting my little asshole open like a muthafuckin’ soldier.

“Sssss,” he hisses, sounding like Beauty and Beast, the two pet black ball Louis' slithering around the bed with us. In fact, just as Louis is gliding his thick, sausage-sized finger in through my back door, Beast coils around my right thigh and then stretches across my V line. Beauty is doing her own thing, gliding in perfect figure eights up and around my chest. The scaly feel of the snakes’ skin against mine is erotic as hell. Pressure building, my hands clench the red satin sheets while my mind spins like a pinwheel.

Whenever Louis puts it on me like this, I feel like nothing and no one can ever come between us. I would lie for this nigga, kill for this nigga, and even die for this nigga. There isn’t a day that rolls by that I don’t let him know that shit either. All I have to do is keep playing my position.

“Awww…. shit!” That wicked tongue slaps my G spot, and I scream in total abandonment. Louis stays put as I cum all over his face, gulping down my thick, creamy candy until it coats every inch of his throat.

“That’s some good shit, nigga,” he praises, lifting his ugly head and smiling, his face twisted and scarred. Fucking him is like fucking the devil himself: dangerous, wicked, and powerful.

I rock my hips, anxious for his fat dick to split my ass in half. “That’s not all that’s good, Daddy,” I flirt, moving Beauty from my chest and sitting up. “Let me get you ready.” I reach for his pound of meat and stroke it to life.

“Ssssss,” Louis hisses, and then flicks his tongue at me. “You hungry, baby?”

“Always.” I roll my tongue across his thick lips.

“Then c’mon. Let me feed you.” He eases onto his back and folds his hands behind his head as he waits for me to sink my hot mouth over his straining cock. “Ssssss. That’s it, baby. Show me how much you love me.”

I have no problem doing just that. I slurp, spit, and vacuum his gooey nut up from his balls and then pop my cherry-red lips off the fat head of his cock in time to watch my dessert gush and splatter everywhere.

“Sssss. Damn, baby. Clean that shit up and give me a little taste.” He grabs his dick and smacks my face with it.

I bend my head and use my tongue like a baby wipe, licking him clean and polishing him up before easing toward his twisted lips and sharing his salty tang with a deep kiss. He loves that nasty shit, plunging and swishing his tongue inside my mouth for any remaining residue of himself.

“Ssssss.” He grabs my fat ass. “You know what time it is, baby?”

“Mmmm. You want some of this hot ass, Daddy?” I press a kiss against his scarred cheekbone and then nibble on his ear. “I betcha got some more sweet candy in that fat dick for me, don’t you?”

“You know it.”

He cruelly pinches my nipples and I moan. Hell, this shit is nothing compared to the bullshit I grew up with. Plus, there’s a small part of me that’s beginning to like the pain, if not love it. My growing pleasure from pain surprises me. It’s becoming like an addictive drug. The adrenaline rush is insane.

“Wait. Wait.” He sits up and reaches over to the black lacquered nightstand and pulls out a plastic bag.

My heart skips a beat.

“All right, baby. Climb up on Daddy.”

I smile, knowing better than to protest or complain. “You got it, baby.”

Straddling his hips in the backward cowgirl position, I open my cheeks wide so he can watch the show and cram every inch of his fat dick into my tight ass. My inner muscle clenches around him like an iron fist.

“Sssss. Twerk that shit, Pa.”

“You got it, Daddy.” I go straight to work, bouncing, grinding, and then bouncing some more. Louis hisses and curls his toes as a tactic to delay busting his nut too soon. I don’t know what it is about ass that sends this nigga straight to the moon, but as long as he wants it, I’m going to toss it up and make sure that he gets plenty of it.

Beauty and Beast slither up and coil around my waist as if they can’t stand to be left out of the action. Ten minutes later, I’m still at it, my body slick with sweat and one snake now around my neck and other one sliding its way toward its daddy. Everybody is hissing in this muthafucka.

Without warning, Louis flips me over so I’m on all fours. Pain sparks from my wounded shoulder and causes my arms to collapse, but before I can utter a sound, he jams a plastic bag over my head, cutting off my oxygen. He twists the bag around his fist so tight, my eyes bulge in shock.

Wait. I wasn’t ready! Panic settles in before I can get my mind right. I try to suck in air but only manage to draw in a mouthful of plastic. My fingers claw at my neck.

“Sssss, baby. This shit is locking up tight,” Louis praises as he rams his fat, ten-inch cock into my ass like a jackhammer. “Ssssss.”

Hold your breath. Try not to breathe. The small voice in my head grows harder to hear. My world is collapsing while a rainbow of colors splash before my eyes. But…my body tingles—deliciously so. Every pore is having mini orgasms. I hear blood rush through my head, and I begin to rise outside my own body.

“Take this dick! Take it!”

I’m losing consciousness. The vibrant colors slowly fade, but there’s still a bright light shining in the distance.

Louis roars and releases the bag as his hot nut blasts onto my ass and then all over the tattoo I got with his name on the center of my back. “Sssss. Goddamn, baby.”

The sudden rush of oxygen is a shock to my system. I cough and wheeze as he pulls the bag from my head. Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I fight the muthafuckas back with everything I have, which is harder than when he dug the bullet out of my arm. Weak but still tingling, a smile softens the corners of my lips.

“Sssss. You liked that, didn’t you, baby?”

“You know it, baby,” I croak, and force a smile on my face.

Louis smears and swishes his seed around my back with his still-rock-hard erection. When my back is good and glazed, he orders me to clean him up again. By the time it’s all over, we’re sated and passing a fat cigar-sized blunt between us.

I snuggle close and absently trace the numerous bullet hole scars on his chest. He’d been shot seventeen times since he’d been inducted into the gang life, and none of them came close to killing his ass, but seventeen niggas got dropped for the attempt. “You feel good, Daddy?”

“Fuck. You know you got the sweetest ass in Memphis.” He winks and flicks his wicked tongue out at me.

“All for you.” I smile and accept the blunt for my toke.

“It better be.” He reaches behind me and squeezes his prized possession. “If I ever catch another nigga digging in my spot, I’ll fuckin’ squash that ass, baby.” He pulls the blunt from my lips and takes another hit. “Believe me greasy on that shit.”

I love it when he gets all possessive. It’s the only way I can tell he really cares. But I also believe I’m not the only bitch in the Queen Gs he’s throwing dick to—but at least he isn’t stupid enough to throw shade over my game in front of my face, and neither are any of his gangsta hoes. Long as we keep that shit going, everything is everything. The number-one problem between us is trust. Louis doesn’t trust no fucking body, except for Momma Peaches, and sometimes he be looking at her sideways, too.

“What?” Louis asks.

“Hmm?” I glance up from his tattooed and scarred chest.

“What the fuck you thinking so goddamn hard about? I can damn near see smoke coming out of your ears.” He chuckles and passes the blunt back. “Tell your man what the fuck is on your mind.”

“Mmmm. My man,” I croon. “I love the sound of that.”

“You better like that shit. You’re the Bonnie to my Clyde, ain’t you, nigga?” He kisses me again.

“You know it, Daddy.”

His thick lips stretch into another grotesque smile. “That’s why I fuck with you. Your ass is down for any and everything.” His fingers drift lightly over my sore neck. “You know how to really get a nigga off. You play your cards right and nigga just might have to marry you.”

I light up. “Really?”

“You keep passing these tests, baby girl. Word is bond.” He takes the blunt from my hand, stubs it out with his fingers, and puts it aside. “Now get on up here and sit on my face. Daddy still hungry.”

My body is still tingling and wet, but I quickly climb up into a sixty-nine and melt like butter when he parts my cheeks and tries to suck the nut he’d just planted there a few minutes ago out my ass. Before I can blast my own cum all over his face, Dr. Dre’s classic “The Chronic” blasts from his cell phone. With his “business before pleasure” motto, he reaches over to the nightstand.

“Talk to me,” he says, answering his phone with my ass still hovering above his face. Then the energy in the room saps out when his baritone voice drops to a dangerous level. “Say that shit again.” He slaps me on the ass, and I scramble off him. “Gather some top-notch niggas. We’re rolling through.” He jumps out of bed as he disconnects the call.

“Daddy, what’s goin’ on?” I ask, leaping out of the bed after him.

“We finally found that nigga.” He laughs, snatching his clothes off the floor.

“Found who?”

“Who the fuck you think? Fat Ace. Nigga is up at the Med visiting some muthafucka.” He grabs his gat. “We’re going to handle this shit tonight.”

I turn toward my own clothes. “Hold up. I’m coming with you to earth this muthafucka!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be zayn and then harry again. i hope you are enjoying the story <3


	13. Zayn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn and Liam come out of the closet to Fat Ace, and something bad happens at the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a really intense chapter... i'm sorry it took soOoOo long to update but i have school and i had to restore my pc and everything got deleted so yeah sorry

The stench of evil rolls off of Fat Ace in waves and threatens to choke me. For years I’ve heard of the man. As with most stories about niggas on the street, I don’t know what’s true and what’s urban legend.

To say that Fat Ace is a big man would be an understatement. To say that he is fat would be a downright lie. Truth of the matter is, Fat Ace, even folded into a metal chair, is a giant. His chest alone is as massive as the side of a mountain, and as far as I can see, his arm muscles even had muscles. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of black shades, his nose is large but not broad, and his lips, framed in a thin goatee, are big and thick.

Fat Ace and Liam look absolutely nothing alike.

“Appears that you’ve been holding out on me, lil bro.” Fat Ace’s voice is low and rough, like his throat has filled with shards of broken glass. “This your boy?”

A corner of Liam’s lips kick up as he reaches out and grabs my hand. “That’s right. This is my nigguh, Zayn. Baby boy, this is my brother, Fat Ace.” He winks at me. “I bet you can’t guess why they call him that.”

When Fat Ace laughs, his chest rumbles and the entire room vibrates.

Eleanor inches closer to me and Liam. I don’t know what to make of this muthafucka either.

“My lil nigga always got jokes.” Fat Ace smirks, shifting a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.

Even though I can’t see his eyes, I can feel them roaming over my body.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around before,” Fat Ace says suddenly. “Where do you stay?”

It’s a loaded question and everyone in the room knows it.

My fingers clamp around Liam’s while Eleanor practically becomes closer than my damn shadow.

“Nigga, will you squash that bullshit? How you going to sit there and interrogate my man? You see his ass cares for a nigga.” Liam lifts my hand and brushes a kiss against my knuckles.

Fat Ace cocks his head at his younger brother. “How the fuck you gone tell me what to do, lil man? In case you forgot, we’re in the midst of a muthafuckin’ war with those grimy ass Gangster Disciples. Muthafuckas dropping our family like a fuckin’ bad habit. They started this shit and we going to finish it.”

I sense Eleanor reaching toward her pocket, but I’m too afraid to say anything or try to warn her. All I can do is pray that my girl don’t do anything stupid—like get us killed.

“Trust when I say these muthafuckas got people everywhere. To be straight up, I don’t know these two bitches from Adam.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to check his ass for calling me outside my Christian name, a habit most niggas learn early, but this time fear chokes off my vocal cords and I can do little more than just stand here and take the verbal abuse.

“Bro, again, this is my man. We’ve been kicking it for a long while now. I ain’t going to abide you calling him all kinds of bitches.”

In that moment, I witness something that I’ve either never seen or ignored in my man. No, he isn’t as large and domineering as his brother, but there’s a quiet strength about him that hints at a darkness that lies just below the surface. I feel it and I have a sneaking suspicion that Fat Ace feels it as well.

“I know you’re tryna impress your boy and everything, but I suggest you get that bass up out your voice,” Fat Ace says, reclaiming authority.

“I…we stay over off Cowden in midtown,” I squeak.

“There, are you satisfied?” Liam challenges, annoyed. “My boy ain't into all that gangbanging bullshit. I told you before that you can have that.”

Fat Aces continues to smirk. “What you call gangbanging, I call street politics.” He stands up from his chair and towers over all of us. “And you’re looking at the muthafuckin’ president of these here United Streets.” He reaches up and finally removes his sunglasses.

My heart drops to the soles of my feet when I look into one brown eye and one milky white eye. The sight of it curls my stomach. I want to look away—I try to look away, but I just…can’t. I’m riveted by what I’m seeing.

“Look, I didn’t risk coming up here to watch you face fuck your boyfriend or argue with you over bullshit. I just wanted to see for myself how you were holding it down.” He slaps hands with his brother, and they add a small fist bump for unity. “I heard how you handled your shit like a true solider with that racist pig O’Malley.”

“You know that white nigga?”

“Sheeeiiit. Everybody knows that slick muthafucka. Always rolling through the sets like he owns the whole fuckin’ city. If you ask me, the wigga just wish he was out here making this real paper. The muthafucka always jack niggas shit without an arrest. NahwhatImean?”

Liam bobs his head. “I can see that shit. Muthafucka has a real chip on his shoulder. His ass is pissed that he had nothing to charge me with. Maybe it was a good thing I wasn’t strapped.”

“Nah. You could have easily blasted your way through those fools.”

I’m dying to ask again what happened, but I figure I’ll get a clearer answer once Fat Ace leaves.

“But I tell you what, your boy is a crazy muthafucka out there. He damn near got my ass killed.” Clearly Liam left out a name on purpose. “I don’t know what the fuck he was doing with that cop, but you might want to check to see if he’s on that shit.”

Fat Ace bobs his head. “Yo, leave that shit to me, man. I’ll handle it. You just chill the fuck out and take care of yourself.” Another slap and a dab. “You rolling up out of here tomorrow?”

“Yeah. First thing, man. I don’t like all this hospital bullshit.”

“A’ight, then. I’ll make sure someone picks you up. One, nigga.” He slides his shades back over his eyes and tilts his head toward me and Eleanor, who’d become a mute during this whole time. “Maybe I’ll see you around again, shawty.”

Fat Ace laughs and then strolls toward the door. “Let’s roll out,” he tells his people before the door swings closed behind him.

I finally expel the air I had trapped in my lungs and then immediately glance back over my shoulder at Eleanor.

“Don’t say shit to me,” E snaps through gritted teeth. “I’m so fuckin’ mad at your ass right now I can hardly see straight.” She jerks her gaze away and folds her arms.

Liam lifts and kisses my hand. “You do realize that we just came out of the closet?” His eyes sparkle. “Sort of speak.”

“It didn’t seem as if we really had a choice.”

Liam laughs. “Damn, Pa. You should feel special. I ain’t never introduced a boy to my family before like that. And I damn sure haven’t been willing to take no beatdown over them either. ’Cause trust my brother’s right hook ain’t for the faint of heart.” He pinches my cheek. “Ain’t that at least worth a smile or something?”

“Liam, what happened?” I ask, needing some answers.

Smiling, he reaches up and brushes his hand against my cheek. “C’mon, baby. I don’t want you to be all worried about that shit. Everything is fine now. That’s all that matters.”

“You’re lying up here in the hospital with a bullet hole in your shoulder.”

“It’s no big thang, baby boy. Really. It’s just a little sore.”

“What. Happened?” I insist.

He looks as if he is going to hold out, but seeing how visibly upset I am, he caves. “Ah, baby. I’m not all that sure my damn self. I was just out chillin’, hangin’ with some friends. One of the niggas said that he had to roll and stack some paper and asked if I wanted to come with. Shit. He said it wasn’t goin’ to take too long, and I’ve known him for a hot minute. I didn’t think shit of it, you know?”

“Okay.”

“Well, the nigga has been known to smoke a few too many las from time to time, and before we rolled out, I wondered if the muthafucka was too blazed up, but you know, sometimes it’s hard to tell. Anyway, we get over on Sharpe, then suddenly I can’t go into this church where he’s supposed to be meeting up with someone. He just wanted me to hang outside for a few and then we were going to keep it moving.” Liam shook his head. “But a few minutes after he entered that building, all hell broke loose. I was just tryna get out the muthafuckin’ way.

“I guess my boy was carrying some serious firepower in that dufflel bag he was carrying, ’cause this nigga was shooting up the joint: cars, streetlights—you name it. Yo, really. It was all a fuckin’ blur. I got caught up ’cause my ass wasn’t strapped.”

“Wait,” Eleanor jumps in. “You were over in Orange Mound strolling without your gat like it was a muthafuckin’ park?” She twists up her face. “What? Are you stupid or something?”

“E!” I elbow my girl.

“What? Even a third grader knows better than that shit.”

Liam laughs. “Ease up off of her, Zee. She’s right. Around here, if your ass ain’t dodging bullets from other niggas, you’re dodging them from the po-po. Trust. I’ve learned my muthafuckin’ lesson.”

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

**POP! POP! POP!**

_“What the fuck?”_

I jump. “That can’t be…”

**POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!**

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

“Niggas are up in the muthafuckin’ hospital shooting?” Eleanor says, looking as stunned as I felt.

“Ace,” Liam whispers, and then jumps out of the bed to rush toward the door.

I quickly leap forward and grab his good arm and whip him back around. “You can’t go out there. What do you think you’re going to do?”

**POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!**

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

“I gotta go help my brother!”

He turns, but I hold firm. “How? By throwing yourself in front of a bullet? _You don’t have a weapon!_ ”

**POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!**

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

“I gotta do something,” he shouts, and wrenches his arm free.

“Wait!” I turn toward Eleanor. “Give me your gun.”

Eleanor digs into her baggy pocket and pulls out her 9 mm.

Liam’s eyes light up as he runs over and takes the gun. “Got an extra clip?”

Eleanor bends over to her ankle and produces a second clip, then looks at me. “What?”

“Y’all stay right here,” Liam says. “I’ll be right back.” He races toward the door, his naked butt cheeks flashing through the split up the back of his hospital gown.

**POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!**

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

For a full three seconds, I try to stay put, but I can’t. “E, I’ll be right back!”

_“ZAYN, NO!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr: floral.fhi.hk  
> talk to me if you like it :)<3


	14. Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes to the hospital with Louis and the Gangster Disciples to kill Fat Ace.

Louis and I roll out of Shotgun Row with a dirty dozen Gangster Disciples and with enough artillery to go hard with the muthafuckin’ Taliban. Everybody is amped the fuck up, and I’m feeding off the danger and testosterone in Louis’s ink-black ’77 Monte Carlo like a dope fiend. Behind us is the second group in a honey-colored ’71 Cutlass with McGriff at the wheel. The murder train is rolling through Memphis, and niggas are going to die tonight.

“Six poppin’, five droppin,” Lethal barks.

“FUCK YEAH!”

Everyone wraps their blue scarves around the lower half of their faces and then checks or slaps in their clips, me included. I hope I’m the one to put a bullet in the center of Fat Ace’s large skull. A kill like that would clinch the deal on Louis giving me his last name. No question about it.

The moment we hit Adams Street, we see the hospital looming large in the distance. It’s been only a few minutes, but it feels like it’s taking forever. Fantasies of how this shit can go down start to fill my head. I bounce in my seat and feel my nipples get harder than a muthafucka while my dick throbs to the same beat of my racing heart.

“There that muthafucka go right there,” Louis hisses, grabbing his TEC-9 and jamming hard on the trigger.

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

Those bitch-ass Vice Lords duck and scatter like the muthafuckin’ gutter rats they are. Half of them race back through the glass doors of the hospital, and the others dive behind parked cars or vans, but they quickly come up with their heat and start firing back.

**POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!**

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

Two cars of GD assassins unload and start blasting at anything and everything that moves. It straight up sounds like we’re in the middle of a war zone. We dump so much heat at the thick glass doors that the muthafuckas explode, and glass falls like rain. Inside, people scream and try to get the hell out of the way. A few aren’t successful. Collateral damage.

I feel a few bullets whiz by my head, singeing wisps of my hair, but I never once blink or stop shooting. One big, greasy muthafucka pokes his head around the bumper of a Toyota and lifts his gat, but I pick him off, slamming two bullets into his forehead.

With four Vice Lords spilling their blood on the concrete, Louis leads his crew in toward the entrance. He isn’t going to pass on this fucking opportunity to put Fat Ace’s ass in the earth for nothing in the world. None of us are—even with the sound of police sirens suddenly filling the night air. No surprise, those grimy muthafuckas hightailed it out of the main lobby. Judging by the droplets of blood on the floor, the muthafuckas separated.

“Split up,” Louis barks. He and a few of the crew take off in the direction of the emergency room.

I end up running behind Lethal, G-Blast, and Lil Chuckee toward Radiology. I’m so high off the adrenaline that is pumping through my veins it feels like I’m floating. One good shot, I pray. That is all I need and this shit is a wrap.

**POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!**

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

I jump and turn around. The gunfire starts coming from the opposite direction. “Fuck!” I take off running. G-Blast and Lethal run past me, but my long legs don’t keep me far behind them. But suddenly shots start ringing out in yet more directions. Are we surrounded?

Before I can react, the side of Lethal’s head explodes, and he’s literally propelled sideways and smashes up against the wall.

I try to slow up, but I’m running so fast that when Lethal goes sideways, his long legs clip me and cause me to fall face-first. At the last second, I try to break my fall by thrusting my hands out, but the minute they hit the floor, my gun goes flying and pain ricochets up to my wounded shoulder. My arm bends like paper and my face smacks the ground so hard that I’m sure every bone is broken.

Lil Chuckee pivots and once again starts shooting at the muthafucka coming from the elevator bay. “What, muthafucka, you want some of this?”

**POP! POP! POP!**

G-Blast turns back and also starts unloading bullets.

**POP! POP! POP!**

Despite the pain, I open my eyes and see a tall muthafucka in a hospital gown blasting at us. With reserved strength and determination, I lift my head and glance around for my 9 mm. It’s about a foot away from me. I stretch out my hand even though I know I won’t be able to reach it.

Hurry up and crawl, bitch!

**POP! POP! POP!**

Not wanting to draw too much attention to myself by popping up on my knees, I belly-crawl inch by painful inch until I’m able to grab hold of the gun with just the tips of my fingers.

“Arrrgh! FUCK!” G-Blast curses, his blood squirting and splashing across my outstretched hand a second before he drops dead next to me.

Lil Chuckee hangs in there, keeping our mysterious gunman distracted while I finally manage to get a firm hold on my weapon.

The nigga’s bullets pound across Lil Chuckee’s chest: His body jerks around before he finally drops to his knees beside me, dead. My blue rag falls from my face as I take aim.

Then my eyes start playing tricks on me when I see Zayn run up behind the mysterious shooter. From across the hospital, our gazes meet, and, shocked, I lower my weapon, but the movement catches the dude’s attention and he now takes aim at me.

“NO!” Zayn screams, attacking the dude from the side just as he fires off a shot. The bullet goes wild as they crash to the floor. “Harry, don’t shoot. Run!”

But I can’t. I’m too shocked to process until my brother screams again, “RUN!”

Police sirens blare like surround sound, and I finally push up off the floor, gun in hand, and run to catch up with my set. The emergency room is wrecked, with glass, blood, and bullet holes everywhere. When I run through with my gun up in the air, everyone screams again and tries to duck and dodge out of the way. Right outside, there’s more exchange of gunfire and now the sound of tires squealing. I hustle out to get back into the action and just barely make it to Adams Street in time for Louis to spot me and allow me to dive in through the open window. For a few heart-pounding seconds, just my upper body makes it inside while my feet kick in the air.

“McGriff took a plug out that muthafucka!” Louis shouts as I crawl over other niggas to get all the way into the car.

When I’m in, I glance out the front and see that we’re giving chase to a chromed-out black Escalade. “Is he dead?” I ask, wiggling into a spot between Killa Kyle and Tyga.

“If not, he will be soon,” Louis declares as we close the distance between the Escalade. “FORKS UP!”

Our crew leans out of the car and starts blasting. The back window of the SUV shatters, and the Vice Lords return fire. But our gun chase is a short one, as an army of blue lights appears in Louis’s rearview mirror.

“FUCK!” Louis jerks the wheel and damn near rolls on its side as we turn onto the next street. Ten minutes later, we’ve ditched the cops and our cars at Goodson’s Autoshop.

While everyone is still amped up and giving each other dabs and shoulder bumps, my thoughts are still tangled up with my baby brother. What the fuck was he doing there? What is his association to that muthafucka who took out three Gangster Disciples? And what will it mean for me when Louis finds out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update will be melanie/maura/zayn.  
> leave a comment if you want xoxoxo


	15. Melanie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crazy muthafuckas are shooting up the damn hospital,” he says, rushing toward the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you will be surprised with the end of this chapter trust me.

“We’re rolling out,” O’Malley says, slamming the phone down on his desk and hopping out of his chair. “The niggers are busy tonight.”

“What?” I frown and look up from our detailed account of tonight’s shooting. Any time a police officer discharges their weapon, let alone when they actually hit someone, there are piles of paperwork that serve one purpose only: covering their asses.

“Crazy muthafuckas are shooting up the damn hospital,” he says, rushing toward the door.

“You’re shitting me.” I have no choice but to jump up and follow, as do a few more officers when they receive the call.

“Sometimes I think that every major city just took their gang members and flushed them down the toilet, and they all popped out here in Memphis.” He holds up his hands. “Keys!”

I unsnap them from my belt hook and toss them to my partner without breaking stride. “Which hospital?”

“The Med,” he growls angrily. “The same place we just left about an hour ago.” O’Malley shakes his head. “How much you want to bet this shit has something to do with that punk muthafucka we shot tonight?”

I don’t answer.

“I knew we should’ve pressed charges on that arrogant asshole.”

“We didn’t have anything on him. Everything pointed to him being an innocent bystander.”

“Fuck that. He was guilty. They all are.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I snap. “Not every black person is in a gang.”

“Sheeeiit.” He sneers. “You can’t prove that shit to me. Haven’t you been paying attention to what the fuck is going on out here? Kids killing kids over bullshit, and if a few bullets hit someone else, oh well, fuck it.” O’Malley shakes his head. “Congratulations. You people survived nearly two hundred and fifty years of slavery, only to win the freedom to kill your damn selves. Way to go!”

He makes a sharp right, and my head nearly hits the side window. “Don’t you start in on that racist bullshit,” I huff. “I’m not in the mood. Gang crimes aren’t a race issue; they’re a fuckin’ economic issue, and you damn well know it!”

“Bullshit.” He takes a sharp left. “These muthafuckas just don’t want to learn nothing but how to shoot, steal, and deal. They don’t give a fuck about anything or anybody else. They’re nothing but domestic terrorists. I wish I could just gather them all up, put them in one building with a ton of guns, and let them go at it. We wouldn’t have to kill them—they’d kill themselves. It could be their Alamo.”

“Do me a favor and shut the hell up.” I grind my teeth together. There’s no point in arguing with an idiot. It’ll only bring me down to his level, but goddamn I’m tired of listening to his mouth. We swerve onto Adams Street and speed toward the hospital. As we draw near, the sound of gunfire penetrates through the wail of our sirens. We approach without our blue tracking light, which was shot out in the previous gunfight..

“There those muthafuckas go!” O’Malley jams his foot down on the accelerator. “I swear to God I want to kill every one of these bastards.”

I reach for the radio and report our position to dispatch. Suddenly, a swarm of gangsters spill out of the hospital, shooting their way toward their cars. “They’re going to get away.”

“Not if I have anything to fucking do about it,” O’Malley says.

I watch as one group struggles with a large man to a black and chrome SUV, and my heart jumps in recognition. A larger group, flagging blue and gray, race toward two cars and peel after the SUV, slowing only briefly as one last member dives through an open window.

O’Malley stays hot on their tail as the three cars tear away from the Med and then continue their gunfight. “Can you believe these bold, coony muthafuckas?”

I cut a sharp look to my left. “O’Malley.” I grit my teeth. “You let one more muthafuckin’ racist slur come out your mouth, and me and you are going to have a serious misunderstanding up in this bitch.”

He smirks, knowing damn well that he’s getting under my skin. We close in and then suddenly the black Monte Carlo peels sharply to the left, and the yellow Cutless goes right, leaving the SUV going straight. O’Malley makes a choice and at the last second hangs a left to chase after the black Monte Carlo. The other patrol cars split up as well.

I grab our radio and report our new pursuit position. However, O’Malley’s driving skills aren’t as sharp as mine. The Monte Carlo is able to shake him as they near the Bethel Grove area.

“What the fuck?!” He whips his head around, trying to judge or guess which street the damn car had ducked down. “Did you see which way they went?”

“Maybe you passed them?” I suggest.

O’Malley makes an illegal U-turn and starts searching the streets again. After what feels like forever, I say, “We lost them. Let’s head back to the hospital, see what the damage is.”

O’Malley dismisses my suggestion. “Fuck that shit. I know those gangsta niggers are around here somewhere. I’m not leaving until I find their asses.”

I simmer.

“What’s that?” O’Malley asks, slamming on the brakes. Suddenly he’s excited again.

“What’s what?” I ask, annoyed. I’m just ready for this long-ass night to end.

O’Malley shifts the car in reverse and backs up. “That,” he says, pointing.

I try to follow his gaze. “I don’t know. It looks like an auto shop.”

He smiles. “Bingo. How much you want to bet they’re in there?”

“How do you know?”

“If I had to ditch a couple of cars, that’s exactly how I would do it.” He smirks, turning toward the shop. “I bet they’re in there thinking they pulled a fast one on me.”

I roll my eyes; everything’s always personal with this asshole. “Even if that was true, do you know how many fuckin’ auto shops are on this road alone?” I reason. “What makes you think they’re in that one?”

“I can just feel it.” He glances over at me. “I can just smell these banging porch monkeys.”

My eyes narrow as I jab a finger toward him. “When we get back to the station, I’m fuckin’ you up.”

“How about you just fuck me and we call it a night?” He winks, laughing.

“Not even if you were the last thing that resembled a man.”

He chuckles and stops the car. “It’s a damn shame. A woman as fine as you going without.”

“Trust me. I’m getting more dick than I can handle,” I sass back as we make our final creep toward the Goodson’s Autoshop. I grab the radio and report our position and then request backup.

O’Malley reaches for the door and opens it.

“Don’t you think we should wait?” I ask.

“I’m just going to take a peek.” He gets out and shuts the door.

I roll my eyes. This hardheaded muthafucka is going to fuck around and get me killed one of these days. I climb out of the car behind him with my hand on my weapon, but I just barely clear the right side of the car when bullets start flying.

**POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!**

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

The windows on the patrol car shatter and bullets slam into the car. A few blaze a little too close to my head as I dive for cover.

Then I can hear shoes shuffling everywhere.

“GO! GO! GO!” someone says.

“POLICE. STOP OR I’LL SHOOT!” O’Malley shouts.

**POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!**

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!**

When bullets stop slamming into the car, I start to pull myself up, but before I can get to my feet, someone jumps into the patrol car. I half expect to see O’Malley, but instead it’s some kid who looks more like a girl than a boy. I aim my weapon, but before I can demand that the kid get out of the car, the punk fires at me. I dive back out of the way again.

My attacker shifts the car in reverse and speeds backward. “What the fuck?” I can’t believe the muthafucka just stole our police car. “These some bold muthafuckas.”

I turn around to see O’Malley racing down the alley at full speed behind two large men. “Shit.” I take off after him. Once again my long legs eat the distance up in no time.

**POP! POP! POP!**

I turn the corner to see one man down and one man cornered at a dead end with his hands in the air, O’Malley’s weapon trained on him.

“Well, looky what we got here,” O’Malley taunts. “My main man Louis.” He chuckles. “I’d know that ugly face anywhere. How you doing, Louis? Or should I say Python?”

I lock eyes with the overseer of the Black Gangster Disciples and then glance over at my partner. I know damn well that O’Malley has no intention of making an arrest—at least not before having his own sort of fun with him. I look over at the other body just a few feet behind my partner.

“So what do you got to say now, big man on the block?” O’Malley asks. “Any last words?”

Louis’s demonic laughs fill the back alley.

“What? You find this funny, muthafucka?” O’Malley challenges. “You don’t look so fuckin’ big and bad to me.”

I roll my eyes and walk around my partner to check the other body. He’s definitely dead, his hand still clutching his 45 mm.

“On your knees,” O’Malley barks.

I glance up to the drama that’s unfolding between Louis and O’Malley. My gaze once again locks with the smirking gangsta. He is clearly enjoying egging my partner on.

O’Malley growls, “I said on your knees.”

I move away from the dead body to stand behind my partner. The sound of police sirens alerts us that our backup is on the way.

“Oh, you’re a stubborn muthafucka, huh?” O’Malley says. “It seems to me that I have myself a hell of an opportunity here. Don’t you think?”

Louis doesn’t answer.

“I can just take you out right here. Huh? Then again, you niggers multiply like cockroaches. You kill one, there’s another one to take its place. But you know…” The corner of O’Malley’s lips kicks up. “In your case, I just might be willing to take my chances, nigger!”

I’ve had enough of his bullshit. I smile and quietly lift the dead man’s 45 toward the back of my partner’s head and pull the trigger.

The back of O’Malley’s bald head explodes like a melon as his body pitches forward and then collapses in a heap on the concrete.

“I done told you about that nigger shit,” I say.

“Took you long enough,” Louis says, moving away from the wall and looking down at O’Malley’s dead body. “I didn’t think he would shut up.”

I laugh. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem anymore.”

Louis smiles as he strolls over to me and lifts my chin. “Either way, I appreciate you coming through for your man.” He leans down and kisses me.


End file.
